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ANNABEL 


AND 


OTHER    POEMS. 


BY 


ELLEN  P.  ALLERTON. 


-*» »  ■  « 


NEW  YORK: 
JOHN  B.  ALDEN,  PUBLISHER. 

1885. 


\e 


py 


COPYRIGHT,  1885, 

BY 

EU.EN  P.  ALLERTON. 


TROWS 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY, 

NEW  YORK. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Many  of  the  poems  in  this  volume  have 
been  printed  in  the  newspapers  of  the  West ; 
and  the  kindness  accorded  them  by  editors 
and  readers  has  encouraged  me  to  collect  and 
preserve  them  in  more  enduring  form.  They 
are  the  work  of  such  hours  of  leisure  as  a 
busy  life  on  a  farm  has  afforded  me.  In  the 
green  heart  of  the  country,  among  rural 
sights  and  sounds,  they  have  been  conceived 
and  written. 

I  send  out  my  little  book  in  hope  and 
faith,  trusting  that  its  gospel  of  Work  and  of 
cheerful  Content  may  find  its  way  to  many  a 
quiet  fireside.  If  it  but  serve  to  brighten 
homely  toil  with  a  touch  of  the  ideal,  and  to 
beguile,  now  and  then,  a  weary  hour  for  the 
"tired  mothers1'  of  our  land,  its  mission  will 
have  been  accomplished. 

Ellen  Palmer  Allerton. 

Hamlin,  Brown  Co.,  Kansas,  May  2, 1885. 


MI91877 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Annabel:  A  Poem  of  the  Heart 9 

^  My  Ambition 34 

A  Kansas  Prairie  and  its  People 35 

Wallsof  Corn 36 

A  Home  out  West 38 

On  the  Prairie 39 

A  Lesson  for  the  New  Year 40 

Gentle  Spring 42 

A  Trail  of '49 43 

A  "Wayside  Tree 45 

The  Old  Butternut  Tree.  .......* 46 

Taught  by  a  Bird 48 

Then  and  Now 49 

The  Old  Farmhouse 50 

Found— Not  Too  Late 52 

A  Country  Home 53 

A  Dirge 55 

The  Whip-po-Will 56 

The  Thread  of  Gray 57 

My  Wild-Rose 58 

Tar-and-Feather  Reform 59 

An  Evening  Monologue 60 

Days  we  Remember 61 

The  Sleeping  Village .• 62 

A  Bride  of  a  Day. 63 

Farmer  John 64 

X  Beautiful  Things 65  X 

TheWild-Rose 66 

Knitting 67 

September 68 

A  Dream 69 

A  Song  of  Peace 70 

Don't  you  tell 71 

Acceptance 72 

Deep  Waters 73 


6  CONTENTS, 

PAGE 

Shadows 74 

To  Mrs.  C.  H.  Phillips 74 

Friends  that  I  used  to  know 76 

Dick  and  I 77 

Seeing  the  Editors 79 

The  First  Bird 81 

Our  Friendship , 82 

Dreams 83 

A  Morning  Call '84 

Day  by  Day ..    85 

Two  Farewells 87 

Harvest-Home 88 

ThePityoflt 90 

Little  Things. 91 

Becalmed 92 

October  Days 93 

Magic  Stones 94 

Eescueforthe  Perishing 95 

Bubbles 98 

Discontent 99 

On  the  Farm 101 

Hours  of  Pain 10? 

Over  Niagara 103 

The  Tower  of  Silence 105 

Laura 107 

November  Rain 108 

To  Mary  109 

My  Mother's  Wheel 110 

God  Knows Ill 

Fourscore 112 

To  the  Memory  of  a  Young  Friend 113 

A  House-keeper's  Questions 114 

Beyond  the  River 116 

The  Sod  House  on  the  Prairie 117 

DiedofWant 118 

At  the  Falls 119 

My  Hickory  Tree 120 

Down  Stream 121 

High  and  Low 122 

Morning  View  of  Lake  Michigan 123 

Spinning  Tow 124 

Indiana 125 

Every  Day  Work 127 

Blackbirds 128 

Down  Below : 128 


CONTENTS.  7 

PAGE 

One  Hour 129 

Probably  Not 130 

Harvest 131 

Over  the  Hill 132 

A  Little  Longer 134 

Love 135 

Labor 136 

The  First  Breath  of  Spring 137 

Fame 138 

The  Wayside  Trough 139 

The  Talking  Fiend 140 

Foreboding 141 

Grandmother 142 

Carrier's  Address,  mdlxxv 143 

Leave  me  Alone 145 

Confidence 146 

Woman's  Work , 147 

Indian  Summer 148 

Hazard 149 

The  Old  Stone  Quarry 150 

Trailing  Clouds 152 

Weighing  the  World 153 


ANNABEL. 

A  POEM  OF  THE  HEART. 


Look  there,  my  friend,  through  yonder  clump 

of  trees. 
You  see  that  lofty,  weather-beaten  wall? 
You  hear  the  hum  of  wheels,  the  broken  fall 
Of  pent-up  waters  borne  along  the  breeze? 
That  is  the  old  brown  mill.    Its  walls  have 

stood 
While  children's  children    have  grown  old 

and  gray, 
While  ruthless  axes  have  hewn  down  the 

wood, 
And  yonder  town  has  grown,  rood  after  rood, 
The  mill  has  stood  there  as  it  stands  to-day. 

ii. 
You  wonder  why  I  point  it  out  to  you? 
Well,  listen.    You  shall  hear  a  simple  tale — 
Simple  in  homely  truth — which  cannot  fail 
To  wake  your  tender  pity ;  which  must  sue 
Your  heart — you  have  a  heart — to  charity. 
Only  a  story  of  a  child's  mistake ; 
Of  blindness  lifted  when  too  late  to  see; 
Of  woman's  waking  when  too  late  to  wake ; 
Of   man's    strong    passion    hardly  kept    in 

check ; 
And  the  strange   ending— if  things  end  at 

all— 
I  sometimes  fancy  they  do  not,  but  break 

and  break, 
In  ceaseless  ripples,  such  as  crimp  the  lake 
When  in  its  depths  one  lets  a  pebble  fall. 


20  ANNABEL. 

III. 
Come  down  the  stream  a  little  way,  and  look 
Behind  those  drooping  elms.     You  see 
A  low  white  cottage  by  the  roaring  brook, 
With  tangled  garden,  to  its  weeds  forsook, 
And  broken  panes,  where  rains  beat  dismally. 
Almost  within  the  shadows  of  the  mill, 
O'erhung  and  sheltered  by  yon  craggy  hill, 
The  cottage  stands.    And  here,  at  eventide, 
After  a  glorious,  golden  day  of  June, 
John  Dent,  the  miller,  brought  his  girlish  bride. 

IV. 

Across  the  valley  had  a  marriage  bell 
Pealed  joyfully  at  morn.    A  child  had  stood 
(She  was  but  little  more) — young  Annabel — 
And  uttered  vows  which  only  womanhood, 
Full-grown  and  earnest,  knowing  well  itself, 
Should  dare  to  utter.    It  was  not  for  pelf — 
No  scheming  child  of  sordid  need  was  she — 
But  prone  to  meet  true  kindness  gratefully, 
As  buds  beneath  the  sunshine  ope  and  lift. 
And  when  young  John  had  wooed  her  ten- 
derly, 
And  honestly,  (an  honest  man  was  he) 
She  gave  him— so  she  thought— her  heart's 
best  gift. 

v. 

Had  she  but  lived  and  died  and  never  known, 
As  many  women  do ;  had  she  not  learned 
What  else  she  had  to  give— what  slow  fires 

burned, 
Smouldered  and  hid,  fed  by  themselves  alone ; 
Had  no  hand  stirred  them  to  a  quenchless 

blaze, 
All  had  gone  well — no,  loveless  is  not  well — 
But  had  not  gone  so  ill.    Sad,  sad  to  tell 
How  woke  into  a  wail  the  silent  tone ; 
How  evil  stole  into  her  quiet  days ; 
How  throbbed  her  heart-strings  like  a  funeral 

knell. 


ANNABEL.  11 

VI. 

For  years  her  life  was  calm.    Sweetly  she 

went 
Calm  household  ways,  and  kept  her  hearth- 
stone bright. 
Light  was  her  heart  at  noon,  serene  at  night, 
In  simple  kindliness  was  well  content. 
Yet  oft  she  wondered  why  the  tenderness 
That  closely  clasped  her  in  its  folding  arm, 
Could  wake  no  passion-throb  of  happiness ; 
Why  loving  words,  so  earnest  and  so  warm, 
Should  have  so  little  potency  to  charm. 
Chided  herself,  and  blamed  her  girlish  heart 
Because  it  gave  so  little — so  much  less 
Than  what  was  given  her — so  kept  apart, 
And  would  not    leap    and    thrill    at  love's 
caress. 

VII. 

And  when  her  first-born  laughed  upon  her 

knee, 
And  looked  up  with  its  father's  honest  eyes 
Into  her  own,  with  innocent  surprise, 
She  wondered  why  a  baby's  careless  glee, 
Its  clasping  fingers  and  its  aimless  kiss, 
Should  wake  within  her  heart  such  throbbing 

bliss, 
Where  all  before  had  been  so  calm  and  still. 
Yet  more  she  blamed  herself — resolved  to  be 
Indeed  a  loving  wife  henceforth.     Ah  me ! 
She  had  to  learn  that  love  comes  not  at  will, 
But  grows — if  grown  at  all— spontaneously ; 
Its  clasping  tendrils  oft  refuse  to  twine, 
Nor  unto  careful  pressure  flows  its  wine. 

VIII. 

Thus  ran  the  days:  at  morn  her  household 

toil, 
Then  needlework  or  books,  both  new  and  old ; 
And  whatsoever  poets  sang  or  told 
Found  in  her  hungry  heart  a  fertile  soil. 


12  ANNABEL. 

The  mighty  masters'  strains  were  household 

words, 
So  often  had  she  conned  them  o'er  and  o'er ; 
And  humbler  poets'  lays  and  songs  of  birds 
Blended  their  music  round  her  cottage  door. 
She  trained    her  flowers,   sang    her    cradle 

songs, 
And  taught  her  babe  to  lisp  its  father's  name 
First  of  all  words ;  and  softly  went  and  came, 
And  neither  talked  nor  thought  of  woman's 

wrongs. 

IX. 

In  afternoons  of  sunny  summer  days, 
Along  the  path  that  runs  beside  the  hill- 
Now  overgrown  with  weeds — to  yonder  mill 
She  turned  her  feet ;  and  where  the  sunlight 

plays 
There  in  the  doorway  through  those  giant 

trees, 
The  child  beside  her,  and  the  toying  breeze 
Lifting  the  ringlets  of  her  dusky  hair, 
She  sat,  the  while  her  husband  plied  his  toil, 
Oft  noting,  as  he  passed,  the  picture  fair 
Of  child  and  mother— of  ten  pausing  there 
To  touch  her  brow,  or  lift  a  ringlet's  coil. 

x. 

So  passed  the  days.    The  brook  went  down 

the  glen 
After  its  labor,  singing  on  its  way. 
Like  task-bound  school-boy  just    let  out  to 

play; 
The   great  trees   rustled— there  were   many 

then — 
As  summer  winds,  flapping  their  lazy  wings, 
Came  down  among  them  from  the  breezy 

hill; 
The  vale  was  fresh  and  green  with  growing 

things ; 
And  peace,  such  peace  as  only  duty  brings. 
Sat  there  within  the  shadow  of  the  mill. 


ANNABEL.  13 

XI. 
Meanwhile  the    child-wife  grew  to  woman- 
hood, 
Unfolding  with  her  life  but  half  complete, 
Although  she  knew  it  not—her  willing  feet, 
And  hands  as  willing,  doing  naught  but  good. 
And  was  she  beautiful?    Tis  woman-like 
To  ask  the  question.    Yes;  yet  none  could 

tell 
Wherein  her  beauty  lay.    I  could  not  strike 
Her  picture,  had  I  all  the  thousand  dyes 
That  paint  the  air.     Dark  were  her  eyes — 
This  I  remember — with  softly  gleaming  lights 
Trembling  within  their  depths,  as  in  a  well 
You  catch  the  sheen   of  stars  on    summer 
nights. 

XII. 

You  bid  me  hasten,  and  you  wonder  why 

I  do  not  tell  my  story  and  have  done. 

I  pray  your  patience — 'tis  so  sad  a  one, 

I  linger  at  its  borders  tremblingly. 

But  here  it  is :    On  one  ill-fated  morn,    - 

A  senseless  form  was  laid  beneath  her  roof, 

Bleeding  and  bruised,  with  garments  smeared 

and  torn, 
And  clotted  hair,  all  red  with  ghastly  gore. 
"Here,  Annabel!"    said   John,  and  said  no 

more; 
He  knew  her  tender  heart — it  was  enough. 

XIII. 

Asking  no  questions,  with  her  gentle  hands 
She  washed  the  blood  from  the  pale,  swollen 

face, 
And  from  the  matted  hair,  and  sought  apace 
To  win  him  back  to  life.     The  loosened  bands 
Tightened  at  last ;  the  silent,  pulseless  wheel 
Of  life  turned  slowly  round;   he    oped    his 

eyes — 
Blue  eyes  they  were — and  looked  with  blank 

surprise 


14  ANNABEL. 

On  the  kind  faces  bent  beside  the  bed ; 
Asked  where  he  was,  and  how  he  came  to 

feel 
So  bruised  and  battered — and  what  ailed  his 

head. 
"  We  picked  you  up,"  said  John,  "by  yonder 

cliff— 
A  broken  limb,  bruised  head — if  that  is  all. 
I  saw  your  horse  take  fright,  and  shy  and 

fall, 
Wrenching  a  sapling  from  its  rocky  bed. 
She  fell  beneath  you— so  did  save  your  life, 
We    hope    and    trust  —  the    noble   beast    is 

dead." 

XIV. 

"Poor  Nan!"  the  stranger  sighed,  "I  loved 

her  well. 
The  graceful  creature  was  my  truest  friend ; 
And  I  could  weep  that  thus  should  be  her 

end. 
What  frighted  her  I'm  sure  I  cannot  tell. 
She  never  once  her  foothold  lost  before, 
And  we  have  traversed  half  a  continent. 
I  do  remember  that  she  shied— no  more. 
Poor  Nan !    Ah  well !  I  ought  to  be  content, 
And  bless  the  fates  that  brought  me  to  your 

door." 

xv. 
The  surgeon  came  and  set  the  broken  limb, 
And  Annabel  looked  on  with  pitying  eye 
The  while  her  tender  tears  fell  silently, 
And  thought  him  brave — admired  the  cour- 
age grim 
That  bore  the  wrench  and  strain  unflinch- 
ingly. 
He  never  winced ;  the  weakness  of  a  groan 
Parted  not  once  the  pallor  of  his  lips. 
So  still  he  lay,  but  for  clenched  finger-tips, 
You  might  have  thought  him  senseless  as  a 
stone. 


* 


ANNABEL.  15 

XVI. 
A  woman's  pity  is  a  dangerous  thing ; — 
Most  when  its  softness  is  all  mixed  and  blent 
With  woman's  admiration.     Such  content 
It  hath  of  passion  and  of  tenderness, 
Which  from  its  tearful  dew  luxuriant  spring. 
That  she  who  feels  needs  double  guardedness 
O'er  her  heart's  citadel ;  and  all  the  more, 
When   in    that   heart    lie    mines    of  untold 

wealth 
Unwrought  by  human  hand.     Its  golden  ore, 
Unlocked,  unguarded,  yields  to  subtle  stealth. 

XVII. 

For  weeks  the  stranger  lay,  fevered  and  ill, 

Tossing  at  times  in  wild  delirium, 

At  others,  lying  faint  and  pale  and  dumb, 

In  limp  exhaustion,  without  speech  or  will. 

Oft  in  his  fevered  ravings  he  would  talk 

Of   distant  scenes — a  spray-washed    seaside 

home; 
Of  his  young  sisters— then  he  seemed  to  walk 
By  forest  streams,  or  mountain  passes  clomb. 
He  raved  of  the  Sierras ;  tossed  a  rock 
Over  the  crags  towards  the  Western  Sea, 
Marked  its  reboundings  with  a  ghastly  glee, 
And  laughed  at  each  reverberating  shock. 

XVIII. 

At  last  the  fires  burned  out.     Life  seemed  to 

stand 
Poised  on  a  balance.     Breathless  days  he  lay, 
With  his  pale  brow  by  chill,  damp  breezes 

fanned 
From  off  another  shore.     Within  the  shad- 
ows dim 
That  fringe  the  skirts  of  that  uncertain  land 
From  whence  no  traveller  o'er  the  misty  rim 
Comes  with  returning  feet,  day  after  day 
He  lingered  at  the  borders,  as  if  Death, 
Putting  his  hot  sword  back  into  its  sheath, 
Having  won  fairly,  scorned  to  take  his  prey. 


16  ANNABEL. 

XIX. 

Meanwhile   young    Annabel,    watching    his 

lightest  sigh, 
With  sleepless  eyes  above  his  pillow  hung ; 
And    when   the    folded    portals    backward 

swung, 
And  the  ebbed  tides  came  faintly  flowing  in, 
She  bowed  her  stately  head,  and  silently — 
So  glad  was  she  that  life  at  last  should  win — 
Wept  tears  of  joy.   Such  tears  are  soonest  dry ! 

xx. 
Then  came  the  days,  so  slow  and  yet  so  swift, 
Of    convalescence — days    when   vanquished 

pain 
Flees  back  among  the  shadows — when  again 
The  prostrate  forces  slowly,  feebly  lift, 
Like  the  bowed  spears  of  tempest-beaten  grain. 
Then  Robert  Lome,  with  puzzled  pleased  sur- 
prise, 
Did  first  discover  what  a  lovely  nurse 
He  had ;  marked — what  I've  told  you  in  my 

verse — 
Her  dusky  ringlets  and  her  starry  eyes ; 
And  then  he  wondered,  thought,  and  won- 
dered still, 
What  freak  of  fortune,  what  mistake  of  fate, 
Had  planted  such  a  regal  flower  as  that 
Within  the  shadow  of  a  dusty  mill. 

XXI. 

Such  thoughts  were  dangerous— like  her  pity. 

Time 
Wore  on,  and  as  the  sick  man  restless  grew, 
Impatient  of  his  weakness,  ('tis  his  due 
To  say,  he  had  been  patient  in  his  pain) 
She  brought  her  books,  and  tried  the  sooth- 
ing chime 
Of  flowing  measures  and  of  tender  rhyme ; 
And  read  to  him,  in  cadence  clear  and  sweet, 
That  seemed  to  him,  in  its  low  rhythmic  beat, 
Like  the  soft  footfalls  of  the  summer  rain. 


ANNABEL.  17 

XXII. 

They  talked  together,  and  he  wondered  more : 
How  had  she  gathered  in  that  quiet  vale, 
Where  pompous  Learning  ne'er  had  swept  its 

trail, 
Of  wit  and  wisdom  such  a  wondrous  store? 
He  drew  her  on,  and  sounded  hidden  wells 
That  into  sparkling  streamlets  bubbled  o'er, 
As  pure,  sweet  springs  that  never  flowed  be- 
fore, 
Start  at  a  touch  along  the  bosky  dells. 
Her  inner  life,  its  strange,  sweet  mysteries, 
Lay  all  unrolled  before  his  eager  eyes — 
So  frankly  talked  she — to  her  own  surprise — 
And  oft  her  laugh  rang  out,  like  tinkling 
beUs. 

XXIII. 

Sweet  were  those  days,  without  a  thought  of 

wrong- 
Days  that  on  swift  and  gilded  pinions  sped— 
Ere    Conscience   had   tolled   out   her  stern 

alarm, 
And  pointed  to  the  rocks  that  loomed  ahead. 
Would  that  no  other  came  into  my  song ! 
You  see  what  baleful  shadow,  dire  and  dim, 
Hovered  about  the  sick-room,  stole  apace 
Into  the  unbarred  door,  and  held  the  place? 
It  came  to  this— he  loved  her,  she  loved  him. 

XXIV. 

There  came  an  hour  when  but  a  little  thing — 
A  thoughtless  act,  and  innocent,  because 
It  held  no  guilty  thought  of  broken  laws — 
Eevealed  it  to  them  both.    He  was  asleep — 
At  least    she  thought  he  was— the  fanning 

wing 
Of  a  stray  breeze  tossing  the  chestnut  hair 
That  lay  about  his  brow ;  and  Annabel, 
Eising  to  leave  the  room,  just  stooped  her 

there, 
2 


18  ANNABEL. 

Softly  put  back  the  clusters,  softly  laid 
Her  sweet  warm  cheek  upon  it.    Then  dis- 
mayed, 
She  heard  the  voice  of  warning,  knew  it  well. 
She  felt  a  thrill  that  never  once  before 
Had  stirred  her   heart— that  never,   never- 
more 
Must  stir  it  thus  again.    Alas !  the  fate 
That  had  withheld  such  sweetness  till  too 
late! 

xxv. 
Then  knew  he  that  she  loved  him— raised  his 

arms, 
And  would  have  clasped  her,  but  she  turned, 
While  all  her  face  with  scorching  blushes 

burned, 
And  left  him — with  a  thousand  vague  alarms 
Tossing  the  heart,  which,  at  that  mute  caress, 
Had,  for  one  moment,  leaped  with  happiness. 

XXVI. 

Thenceforth  her  manner  changed.    She  silent 

grew, 
And  often  met  with  an  averted  eye 
His  questioning  look ;  and  well  and  faithfully 
Strove  with  her  foe,  determined  to  subdue. 
Meanwhile  the  man  grew  strong.    His  hurts 

were  well, 
And  the  soft  tints  of  health  began  to  come 
Across  the  sunken  pallor  of  his  cheek. 
He  took   slow  walks — still  further  cure  to 

seek — 
Adown  the  brook,  and  through  the  grassy 

dell, 
And  soon  began  to  speak  of  going  home. 

XXVII. 

"  'Tis  a  long  journey,"  said  the  miller,  "wait 
Awhile ;  be  not  in'haste  to  go,  I  pray. 
You  had  best  tarry,  and  submit  to  fate," 
Laughed  he,  "  'till  you  have  strength  enough 
to  shut  the  gate — 


ANNABEL.  19 

(He  just  had  left  it  wide)  you've  not,  to-day." 
Poor  man !  he  little  knew  what  meaning  fell 
From  out  his  careless  banter,  on  the  ears 
Of  guest  and  wife.    No  truant,  tell-tale  tears 
Sprang  to  her  eyes;  she  kept  her  bosom's 

strife 
On  its  own  battle-field,  and  marshalled  well 
Her  gathered  forces,  even  while  a  knell, 
Struck  on  her  heartstrings,  sent  its  hollow 

toll 
In   sobbing   shudders   through   her   inmost 

soul. 
There  lay  her  dead— a  scathed  and  blighted 

life. 

XXVIII. 

"If  go  you  must,"  said  honest  John,  "  good- 
by. 

The  mill  awaits  me  with  its  silent  wheels ; 
The  summer  morn  with  quiet  footstep  steals 
Quickly  away,  and  so,  perforce,  must  I." — 
' '  Farewell, "  said  Robert  Lome.    ' '  My  thanks 

accept 
For  all  your  kindness.    I  shall  hold  it  well, 
With   grateful   care,    among   my  treasures 

kept." 
"Small    thanks  to  me,"  said  John.     "The 

praise  is  due, 
To  yonder  tireless  nurse  who  tended  you. 
With  her  I  leave  you— talk  to  Annabel." 

XXIX. 

So  briskly  towards  the  mill  he  walked  away, 
Humming  a  tune  in  careless,  happy  tone, 
Leaving  the  two,  and  so  they  stood  alone. 
What  could  they  do?  and  what  could  either 

say? 
Only  good-by?    Had  they  but  said  no  more, 
Love  might  have  died  a  silent,  smothered 

death, 
Like  fires  close-covered  where  there  stirs  no 

breath. 


20  ANNABEL. 

But  words  are  flame;  once  given  vent  and 

space, 
The  fiery  tide  fast  over  leaps  its  shore, 
And  seldom  ebbs  again  into  its  place. 

xxx. 

One  silent  moment — save  the  throbbing  beat 
With  which  two  hearts  kept  time— and  then 

he  came 
And  stood  beside    her,  trembling.     "I   can 

tame," 
Said  he,  "the  wild  mustang,  though  strong 

and  fleet, 
But  cannot  tame  my  heart.     Turn  not  away 
That  sad,  pale  face.    Hear  me  this  once,  I 

pray, 
For  I  must  speak  or  die— though  years  too 

late. 
John   Dent   spoke   truly,    though   he   little 

knew 
How  what  he  said  was  doubly,  direly  true ; 
I  have  not  strength  enough  to  shut  the  gate. 

XXXI. 

"I  know  you  love  me — nay,  hide  not  your 

face, 
Drop  not  your  eye— 'tis  veiled  e'en  now  with 

tears. 
Let  me  look  deep  into  its  starry  glow 
Once  more— it   is  the   last,   last  time,   you 

know. 
I  knew  you  loved  me,   when,   with  tender 

grace, 
You   stooped   and   touched   me   with  your 

cheek.    The  years, 
Many  or  few,  that  slowly  come  and  go, 
One  thing  cannot  take  with  them.    I  shall 

keep, 
Hidden  within  my  lone  heart's  deepest  deep, 
The  memory  of  one  moment's  happiness, 
When  throbbed  my  whole  soul  to  that  mute 

caress." 


ANNABEL.  21 

XXXII. 
"You  should  not  say  such  things  to  me!" 

she  said. 
Entreaty  and  reproach  were  in  her  look ; 
Her  face  was  deadly  pale,  her  whole  frame 

shook. 
"You   see  my  weakness,   which  I  seek  to 

tread, 
With  all  my  gathered  strength,  beneath  my 

feet; 
The  task  is  hard  enough— why  will  you  add 
Strength  to  my  enemy  and  steal  my  own? 
Leave  me,  I  pray,  and  let  me  fight  alone 
The  weary  battle — I  am  sick  and  sad." 

XXXIII. 

"  Poor  little  one !  "  he  said.     "  I  pity  you 
From  my  heart's  core,  but  do  myself  as  well. 
How  it  shall  fare  with  me  I  cannot  tell ; 
But  you  will  be  to  every  duty  true, 
And  go  your  daily  ways  like  some  sweet 

saint, 
With   feet   that   never   falter,  though  you 

faint. 
You,  but  a  frail  woman,  will  a  foe  subdue 
That  conquers  me— I  cannot  be  like  you." 

xxxiv. 

"  'Tis  only  to  endure,"  she  said.     "  The  pain, 
Though  sharp,  will  soon  be  over.     We  must 

take 
The  sequence  of  our  folly.     They  that  make, 
As  we  have  made,  shipwreck  of  happiness, 
Must  fare  without  it.     Life  is  not  so  long — 
What  signifies  a  heartache  more  or  less? 
A  few  wild  throbs  that  wrench  the  breast  and 

brain, 
Then — if  we   conquer — comes   the   calm    of 

peace ; 
Next,  that  of  Death,  and  then— all  struggles 

cease." 


22  ANNABEL. 

XXXV. 
"  Tis  a  sad  end  that  only  comes  with  death ! 
I  think  the  saddest  thing  that  mortals  know 
Is  such  a  love,  that  only  endeth  so. 
O  Annabel !  down  to  my  latest  breath 
Must  I  endure  this  wrong — '  the  perfect  mate 
After  long  years  of  waiting  found  too  late '  ? 
Matches,  they  say,  are  made  in  Heaven  above, 
Where  hearts  are  wed.    If  marriage  is  but 

love, 
All  other  marriage,  then,  must  spurious  be, 
And  you,  before  high  Heaven,  belong  to  me." 

xxxvi. 
"  Forbear ! "  the  woman  cried.     "  'Twas  hard 

before : 
'Tis  cruel  that  you  add  such  agony, 
Heaping  it  high  upon  my  misery. 
Oh!    cease,  and  leave  me— I   can   bear   no 

more." 
"I  go:  but  once,  just  once,  your  heart  shall 

throb — 
Where  it  should  always  throb— close  up  to 

mine." 
He  clasped  her  close,  and  while  sob  after  sob 
Shook  her  from  head  to  foot,  on  brow  and 

neck, 
On  tear- wet  cheek,  and  pale  and  quivering  lip, 
Pressed  passionate  kisses.    Little  did  he  reck 
In  that  mad  moment  of  the  bitter  drip 
So  sure  to  follow  that  one  draught  of  wine. 

XXXVII. 

You  blame  such  madness?  so  do  I,  but  then 
Poor  human  nature,  wrenched  and  passion- 
tossed, 
At  best  intent  too  often  goes  astray. 
We  little  know  how  much  our  own,  so  crossed, 
Could  bear — whether  the  strength,  which  in 

our  day 
Of  sunny  peace  deems  so  secure,  could  stand 
Amid  the  sweeping  storm,  and  hold  at  bay 


ANNABEL.  23 

The  rush  of  passion,  stem  the  tide  of  pain, 
And  probe  our  own  deep  wounds  with  steady- 
hand. 
We  know  not  until  tried,  I  say  again, 
What  we  can  bear.    We  all  have  need  to  pray. 

XXXVIII. 

At  last  he  whispered  hoarsely,  "Fare  thee 

well. 
Earth  holds  no  parting  half  so  sad  as  this. 
Would  it  had  been  but  death !  no  tolling  bell 
Did  ever  utter  forth  such  wretchedness. 
You  will  find  peace — such  peace  as  waits  to 

bless 
Enduring  patience ;  but,  oh  Annabel ! 
Sometimes  when,  in  your  saintly  purity. 
At  the  still  evening  hour  you  kneel  to  pray, 
Eemember  and  ask  pity,  too,  for  me." 
He  loosed  his  arms,  then  turned  and  rushed 

away. 
She  stood  and  watched  him  from  the  open 

door — 
Once  stretched  her  hands  ('twas  well  he  did 

not  see) 
As  if  to  call  him  back— cried,  "  Woe  is  me ! 
I  never,  never  shall  behold  him  more!  " 
Then  she  caught  up  her  boy,  and  held  him 

prest, 
While  she  wept  wildly,  to  her  aching  breast. 

XXXIX. 

A  year  had  flown  on  slow  and  quiet  wing 
Above  the  vine-wreathed  cottage  by  the  mill. 
Again  the  wild  rose  all  along  the  hill 
Hung  out  its  lavish  blossoms.     All  the  ground 
Was  spread  with  summer's  richness :  on  the 

wing 
The  wild  bird  sang — and  still  the  wheels  went 

round. 
It  was  a  fragrant  morning ;  every  breath  of 

air 


24  ANNABEL. 

Was  laden  with  the  breezy  scents  of  June. 
From  out  the  open  casement  a  low  tune 
Came  softly  floating,  like  a  tender  prayer — 
The  wife  was  singing  at  her  daily  care. 
Just  shadowed  was  her  brow  with  pensive 

thoughts, 
Yet  was  it  calm  and  smooth  and  purely  fair — 
'Twas  plain  had  come  to  her  the  peace  she 

sought. 

XL. 

But  how  fared  Kobert  Lome?    Not  quite  so 

well. 
With  restless  foot,  that  never  ceased  to  roam, 
He  wandered  widely,  and  no  chosen  home 
Found  anywhere.     The  ocean's  heaving  swell 
Best  suited  him ;  and  mountain  heights 
Swept  by  wild  tempests ;  stormy  nights, 
When  shook  and  jarred  the  everlasting  hills 
Beneath  the  tread  of  thunders,  when  the  glare 
Of  the  red  lightnings  lit  the  midnight  air, 
And    sweeping  torrents  tore  the  mountain 

side — 
These  chimed  with  his  dark  mood.    But  peace- 
ful vales, 
And  silent  rivers  with  their  gentle  glide, 
And  sleeping  lakes  flecked  with  the  snowy  sails 
Of  floating  ships;  the  calm  of  eventide, — 
All  scenes  of  quiet — in  his  feverish  soul 
But  stirred  the  demon  of  unrest.     The  bowl 
Of  fierce  excitement,  with  a  restless  thirst 
Deeply  he  quaffed,  yet  still,  as  at  the  first, 
He  thirsted.    At  last,  heart-sick  and  sore, 
When  utter  weariness  had  done  its  worst, 
He  turned  his  face  toward  his  native  shore. 

XLI. 

" Once  more,"  he  thought,  "to  look  upon  her 

face, 
Unseen  by  her.    I  will  not  break  the  calm 
Which  she,  mayhap,  hath  found.    Her  tender 

palm 


ANNABEL.  25 

She  need  not  lift  to  warn  me  from  the  place. 
But  once  to  watch  her  in  her  gentle  grace, 
Twining,  perchance,  the  roses  at  her  door. 
It  shall  be  only  once— I'll  dare  no  more." 

XLII. 

And    so    it    chanced,   that    breezy  morn  of 

June,  Lhill, 

Crouching  within  the  copse  that  crowned  the 
He  listened  to  the  low  and  pensive  tune 
That  floated  through  the  casement.     Waiting 

still, 
He  saw  not  though  he  heard  her.     Finally 
She  came  within  the   doorway — raised  her 

hand 
To  shade  her  eyes,  and  with  a  startled  look 
Gazed    down    the  beaten   pathway  by    the 

brook. 
He  wondered  at  her  air.    What  did  she  see? 
Following  her  eye  with  his,  he  saw  a  man 
With  wild,  excited  mien,  and  hurried  tread, 
Approach  to  where  she  stood — heard  what  he 

said  : 
"Your  husband,  madam!    Quickly  as  you 

can 
Come  to  the  mill.    He's  hurt,  and  well-nigh 

dead." 

XLIII. 

Swiftly  she  flew,  as  if  her  feet  had  wings, 
To  where  he  lay.    He  saw,  looked  up  and 

smiled. 
Whispered,   "Good-by— God   keep   my  wife 

and  child!" 
Then  closed  his  eyes  upon  all  earthly  things. 
Now  swept  across  her  soul  a  grief  so  wild 
That  reason  nearly  reeled.     Regret,  remorse, 
Uttered  accusing  voices.    Had  she  been 
Within  her  secret  heart  a  loyal  wife, 
She  had  not  felt  the  pain,  so  swift  and  keen, 
That   cut  her    conscience  like  a  two-edged 

knife. 


26  ANNABEL. 

The  sight,  the  sound,  were  pitiful !  A  low  moan 
Came  from  the  set  white  lips ;  no  tears  she 

shed, 
But  gazed  with  stony  look  upon  the  dead. 
At  last  a  voice,  in  low  and  husky  tone : 
"  Take  her  away.     Do  you  not  see,"  it  said, 
1 '  That  this  is  killing  her  ? "    She  raised  her  eyes 
With  one  quick  glance  of  sudden,  shocked 

surprise, 
Saw  it  was  He,  and  fainted  on  the  corse. 

XLIV. 

He  came  not  near  her  in  her  grief,  but  when 
The  day  of  burial  came,  he  watched  afar, 
With  strange  emotions  in  his  heart  at  war. 
He  saw  her,  sable-clad  and  drooping,  stand 
Beside  the  open  grave,  clasping  the  hand 
Of  her  half -orphaned  boy.  and  pitied  her — 
So  sad,  so  drooping  did  she  seem — and  then 
There  crossed  his  pity  a  wild  wave  of  joy, 
(Albeit  remorse  came  in  with  its  alloy) 
That,  howsoever  stricken,  she  was  free. 
4 '  Sure  none  may  claim  her  now,"  he  thought, 
\ '  but  me. " 

XLV. 

A  month  went  by,  and  then  a  letter  came, 
Telling  her  that  when  the  year  was  done, 
Its  last  day  faded,  its  last  setting  sun 
Gone  out  of  sight  with  all  its  hues  of  flame, 
She  might  expect  him  at  her  cottage  door. 
"  Fail  not,"  it  said,  "  to  look  for  me  at  even; 
If  living,  you  will  see  me— not  before. 
I  well  can  wait  a  year  without  complaint, 
With  hope  to  lighten  with  its  joyous  leaven — 
I  who  did  think  to  wait  forevermore. 
Though  love   is  haste,   it  still  hath  self-re- 
straint ; 
And  not  a  slander,  not  a  breath  of  taint, 
Must  soil  the  white  plumes  of  my  bird  of 
heaven. " 


ANNABEL.  27 

XLVI. 

The  year  at  last  had  fled.  The  scents  of  June 
Once  more  went  floating  softly  down  the  dell ; 
Once  more  the  tall  grass  rocked  beneath  the 

swell 
Of  summer  winds ;  in  noisy,  babbling  rune     - 
The  brook  came  singing  from  the  creaking 

mill; 
And  once  again,  along  the  beetling  hill 
The  wild  rose  hung  its  pennons.     Evening 

fell; 
The  sunset  faded,  and  the  summer  moon 
Eose  calmly,  and  hung  out  her  silver  shield 
Athwart  the  dusky  bosom  of  the  night. 
One  star,  and  then  another,  in  the  field 
Of  heaven  came  out  and  blossomed  into  light. 
Silence  unbroken  hung  about  the  door 
Of  the  lone  cottage,  only  o'er  and  o'er 
From  out  the  shadows  one  sad  whip-po-will 
Sang  his  night-song,  so  plaintive,  yet  so  shrill, 
And  the  brook  babbled  to  its  sedgy  shore. 

XLVII. 

Within  sits  Annabel,  and  counts  the  ticks 
That  measure   off  the  travel  step  by  step, 
Of  the  slow,  laggard  Time.     In  rosy  sleep 
Her  play -tired  darling  lies.     A  silence  deep— 
The  silence  of   hushed  waiting — wraps  her 

round. 
She  listens  for  a  footstep,  for  a  sound  beside. 
Both  come  at  last.    The  low  gate  clicks'; 
Upon  the  gravelled  walk  a  manly  tread, 
Firm,  eager,  then,  a  quick  rap  at  the  door ; 
Then,  "Robert!"   "Annabel!"  and  then  no 

more 
In  those  first  moments  is  by  either  said. 
What  need  of  words?    Her  head  is  on  his 

breast, 
His  arms  about  her,  and  both  hearts  at  rest. 
What  need,  when  each  knew  all  that  each 

could  say? 


28  ANNABEL. 

Thus,  deep  emotion,  with  its  fetters  flung 
About  the  speech,   hath  oft  "tied  fast  the 

tongue." 
Love,  like  a  brook,  starts  singing  on  its  way, 
Ripples  and  murmurs  in  its  noisy  play ; 
Like  a  deep  river  when  it  meets  the  sea, 
It  rolls  into  its  ocean  silently. 

XLVIII. 

Again  the  wedding  bells,  above  the  town 
And  through  the  valley,  where  a  year  ago 
Sobbed  forth  a  funeral  knell  so  sad  and  slow, 
Pealed  out  in  throbs  of  joy.     Love  wore  its 

crown 
In  solemn  awe ;  for  well  did  those  two  know 
How  in  its  hunger  it  had  wronged  the  dead. 
Yet  both  had  sought  to  quench  it ;  both  had 

tried 
To  kill  a  deathless  thing— which  had  not  died. 
Their  joy  was  born  of  sorrow.     Solemnly 
They  held  in  close  embrace  their  child  of 

tears. 
The  bride  is  pale,  though  lovely.     Shadows 

lie 
Within  her  glorious  eyes ;  she  trembles,  fears ; 
Amid  her  joy  half  shivers  as  with  dread ; 
And  yet  the  words  she  utters  now  are  true. 
It  is  her  heart  that  speaks — this  time  she 

knew 
The  full,  sweet  meaning  of  the  words  she 

said. 

XLIX. 

They  went  away ;  and  in  far  foreign  lands, 
Through  Old  World  scenes  they  wandered  at 

their  will. 
They  heard  no  more  the  clatter  of  the  mill, 
Although  the  busy  sounds  did  never  cease , 
Although  still  turned  the  tireless  wheels  and 

bands;  * 
The  walls  still  throbbed  and  trembled;  and 

within 


ANNABEL.  29 

Beat  ceaseless  pulses,  sounded  ceaseless  din. 
Did  they  come  back  again?    You  soon  shall 

know. 
I  have  not  told  you  all  the  story  yet  ;— 
Would  I  could  leave  it  here,  the  rest  forget ! 

L. 

At  last  the  lovers— (they  were  lovers  still, 
As  when  they  stood    together,   groom   and 

•     bride) — 
Weary  of  travel,  longed  to  sit  at  peace 
In  their  own  doorway;  dreamed  of  winter 

nights 
With  talk  or  books  by  their  own  chimney- 
side, 
While  on  the  panes  should  beat  the  whirling 

snow ; 
Of  children's  play,  and  all  home's  dear  de- 
lights. , 
And  so  they  sought  a  vessel  homeward  bound, 
And  rode  once  more  upon  the  summer  sea. 
One  precious  treasure  they  abroad  had  found, 
And  Annabel  was  full  of  happy  care — 
She  held  a  baby  girl  upon  her  knee, 
Born  at  the  foot  of  Alps,  on  storied  ground. 
Her  boy  played  round   her   in   his   sturdy 

glee, 
While   sweet   sea-breezes   tossed  his  flaxen 

hair; 
Her  husband  lingered  near  with  ready  aid 
(In  truth,  one  seldom  found  him  otherwhere) ; 
And  hardy  sailors,  brown  with  ocean  toil, — 
Profane,  perhaps,  for  life  before  the  mast 
Is  rough,  we  know,— full  oft  their  footsteps 

staid 
For  lingering,  softened  glances  as  they  passed, 
Thinking  of  what  they  nevermore  might  see — 
Of  wife  and  babes,  and  home,  and  native  soil. 
Swift  flew  the  hours.    None  saw  the  spectre 

gray 
That  hovered  near  and  nearer  day  by  day. 


30  ANNABEL. 

LI. 

A  night,  a  moonlit  night  upon  the  deep. 
A  night  of  breathless  calm ;  a  night  so  still, 
The  circling  waste  of  waters  lay  asleep, 
And  one  scarce  felt  the  ocean's  pulses  thrill. 
A  night  to  dream  upon  in  after  years, 
On  shaded  porch,  by  cheerful  ingle-nook, 
Or  in  hot  rooms,  beside  the  singing  brook — 
'Twas  surely  not  a  night  for  groans  and  tears. 

LII. 

The  children  slept  below ;  and  Annabel, 
Eobert,  and  others  stood  about  the  deck, 
Watching  a  ship  that  seemed  a  distant  speck 
Across  the  moon's  white  wake ;  enjoying  well, 
As  only  landsmen  can,  a  calm  at  sea. 
A  little  cry — "Oh,  Eobert !  what  is  that? 
That  beauty  down  there  ?  "     "  That's  a  shark, " 

said  he. 
"  A  big  one,  too,  he  is,  and  plump  and  fat, — 
But  hungry  now,  and  watching  for  a  feast. 
What  jaws,   and  teeth!    ugh!    'tis  an  ugly 

beast!" 
Just  then,  as  some  one  spoke,  he  turned  away, 
Not  thinking  how  one  moment's  heedlessness 
A  man  may  rue  until  his  dying  day. 
There  lay  the  monster,  silent,  motionless, 
With  wicked,  watchful  eyes,  and  gleaming 

breast 
Half  upturned  to  the  moon ;  and  Annabel 
Gazed  as  one  charmed.     She  shuddered  and 

turned  pale, 
Yet  with  dilated  eyes  leaned  o'er  the  rail. 
Farther  she  leaned— too  far— and  slipped — 

and  fell. 

LIII. 

I  pass  it  o'er — that  awful  scene  at  sea — 
The  woman's  shriek,  the  man's  hoarse,  dread- 
ful cry ; 
The  kind  hands  (were  they  kind?)  holding  by 
force 


ANNABEL.  31 

The  frantic  husband  in  his  agony 

(To  leap  had  been  but  death,   to  live  was 

worse) ; 
The  shocked  and  pallid  faces,  horror- white ; 
And  over  all  the  calm  moon's  placid  light. 
Some  things  transcend  the  telling.     Better 

these, 
Left  to  that  inner  sense  which  hears   and 

sees. 

:je  sj<  si*  *  *  * 

LIV. 

He  still  lives  on,  that  sorely  stricken  man, 
Lives,  as  man  will,  as  even  woman  can, 
When  life  no  more  holds  any  hope  or  joy. 
He  still  is  young — at  least,  is  young  in  years — 
Yet  is  the  seal  of  age  upon  his  brow. 
The  proud  head  droops,  the  kingly  step  is 

slow ; 
And  round  the  temples,  where  the  chestnut 

hair 
Clustered  in  glassy  sheen,  cling  locks  of  snow. 
He  comes  here  now  and  then — the  sturdy 

boy, 
The  tiny  dark-eyed  girl  beside  him  led — 
The  boy,  like  John  Dent,  open-browed  and 

fair; 
She,  like  her  mother,  with  soft,  dusky  hair 
Clinging  in  rings  about  her  dainty  head. 
Eyes  soft  with  pity  mark  them  as  they  pass. 
The  children  chatter — they  are  merry  dears — 
Proud  when  they  win  their  father's  smile. 

Alas! 
His  smile  is  sadder  than  a  woman's  tears. 
The  mill  grinds  on;  the  faithful  wheels  and 

bands 
Take  up  their  work  each  morn.     The  cottage 

stands 
Untenanted,  dismantled ;  no  one  heeds 
The  smothered  flowers  that  choke  amid  the 

weeds. 


32  ANNABEL. 

I've  seen   the   master  pause — with  shaking 

hands — 
And  close  the  gate.    I  think  he  dreads  the 

spot. 
My  story  ends.    A  strange  one,  is  it  not? 

LV. 

The  twilight  falls.     The  moon  hangs  o'er  the 

hill; 
The  brook  goes  darkly  down  its  winding  way ; 
Ceased  for  the  day  the  clatter  of  the  mill ; 
Adown  the  valley  stretch  the  shadows  gray ; 
And  you,  I  see,  are  weeping.    Come  away. 


MISCELLANEOUS 
POEMS. 


MY  AMBITION. 

I  have  my  own  ambition.    It  is  not 
To  mount  on  eagle  wings  and  soar  away 

Beyond  the  palings  of  the  common  lot, 
Scorning  the  griefs  and  joys  of  every  day; 

I  would  be  human — toiling,  like  the  rest, 

With  tender  human  heart-beats  in  my  breast. 

Not  on  cold,  lonely  heights,  above  the  Teen 
Of  common  mortals  would  I  build  my  fame, 

But  in  the  kindly  hearts  of  living  men. 
Jhere,  if  permitted,  would  1  write  my  name; 

Who  builds  above  the  clouds  must  dwell  alone; 

I  count  good  fellowship  above  a  throne. 

And  so,  beside  my  door  I  sit  and  sing 
My  simple  strains— now  sad,  now  light  and  gay; 

Happy,  if  this  or  that  but  wake  one  string, 
Whose  low,  sweet  echoes  give  me  back  the  lay. 

And  happier  still,  if  girded  by  my  song, 

Some  strained  and  tempted  soul  stands  firm  and  strong. 

Humanity  is  much  the  same;  if  I 

Can  give  my  neighbor's  pent-up  thought  a  tongue, 
And  can  give  voice  to  his  unspoken  cry 

Of  bitter  pain,  when  my  own  heart  is  wrung,— 
Then  we  two  meet  upon  a  common  land, 
And  henceforth  stand  together,  hand  in  hand. 

I  send  my  thought  its  kindred  thought  to  greet, 
Out  to  the  far  frontier,  through  crowded  town. 

Friendship  is  precious,  sympathy  is  sweet; 
So  these  be  mine,  I  ask  no  laurel-crown. 

Such  my  ambition,  which  I  here  unfold; 

So  it  be  granted— mine  is  wealth  untold. 

J 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


A  KANSAS  PRAIRIE  AND  ITS  PEOPLE. 

How  grandly  vast  the  prairie  seems, 

Beneath  pale  winter's  glow— 
A  wide,  white  world,  in  death-like  sleep 

Under  its  shroud  of  snow. 

Yet  there  are  signs  of  life ;  the  lanes 

Are  trod  by  heavy  teams ; 
A  horseman,  on  yon  distant  swell, 

A  moving  atom  seems. 

The  wide,  white  lands  that  stretch  away 

Are  dotted  everywhere 
With  orchard  clumps,  and  farmers'  homes 

Are  snugly  nestled  there. 

The  people  of  this  brave  new  world 
Have  come  from  every  quarter ; 

Some  faced  each  other  long  ago, 
On  red  fields  bathed  in  slaughter. 

In  frosty  dawns  of  winter  morns, 

The  white  smoke  curls  away 
From  homes  of  men  who  wore  the  blue, 

And  men  who  wore  the  gray. 

Here,  brothers  all,  they  hang  their  gifts 

On  the  same  Christmas  tree, 
Are  kindly  neighbors,  cordial  friends. 

As  brothers  ought  to  be. 


36  WALLS  OF  CORN. 

And  crowds  of  children,  Kansas  born,— 
Our  young  State's  hope  and  pride — 

With  rosy  cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes, 
Learn  lessons  side  by  side. 

Naught  reck  they  of  the  battle-field, 
Of  sad,  dark  years  of  slaughter ; 

The  Northman's  son  some  day  shall  wed 
The  Southron's  gentle  daughter. 


WALLS  OF  CORN. 


Smiling  and  beautiful,  heaven's  dome, 
Bends  softly  over  our  prairie  home, 

But  the  wide,  wide  lands  that  stretched  away, 
Before  my  eyes  in  the  days  of  May, 

The  rolling  prairies  billowy  swell, 
Breezy  upland  and  the  timbered  dell, 

Stately  mansion  and  hut  forlorn, 
All  are  hidden  by  walls  of  corn. 

All  wide  the  world  is  narrowed  down, 
To  walls  of  corn,  now  sere  and  brown. 

What  do  they  hold— these  walls  of  cbrn, 
Whose  banners  toss  on  the  breeze  of  morn  ? 

He  who  questions  may  soon  be  told, 

A  great  state's  wealth  these  walls  enfold. 

No  sentinels  guard  these  walls  of  corn, 
Never  is  sounded  the  warder's  horn. 

Yet  the  pillars  are  hung  with  gleaming  gold, 
Left  all  unbarred,  though  thieves  are  bold. 

Clothes  and  food  for  the  toiling  poor, 
Wealth  to  heap  at  the  rich  man's  door ; 


WALLS  OF  CORN.  37 

Meat  for  the  healthy,  and  balm  for  him 
Who  moans  and  tosses  in  chamber  dim ; 

Shoes  for  the  barefooted,  pearls  to  twine 
In  the  scented  tresses  of  ladies  fine ; 

Things  of  use  for  the  lowly  cot, 

Where  (bless  the  corn)  want  cometh  not ; 

Luxuries  rare  for  the  mansion  grand, 
Gifts  of  a  rich  and  fertile  land ; 

All  these  things,  and  so  many  more 
It  would  fill  a  book  to  name  them  o'er, 

Are  hid  and  held  in  these  walls  of  corn, 
Whose  banners  toss  on  the  breeze  of  morn. 

Where  do  they  stand,  these  walls  of  corn, 
Whose  banners  toss  on  the  breeze  of  morn  ? 

Open  the  Atlas,  conned  by  rule, 

In  the  olden  days  of  the  district  school. 

Point  to  the  rich  and  bounteous  land, 
That  yields  such  fruits  to  the  toiler's  hand. 

"  Treeless  desert,"  they  called  it  then, 
Haunted  by  beasts  and  forsook  by  men. 

Little  they  knew  what  wealth  untold, 
Lay  hid  where  the  desolate  prairies  rolled. 

Who  would  have  dared,  with  brush  or  pen, 
As  this  land  is  now,  to  paint  it  then  ? 

And  how  would  the  wise  ones  have  laughed 

in  scorn, 
Had  prophet  foretold  these  walls  of  corn, 
Whose  banners  toss  in  the  breeze  of  morn  ? 


38  A  HOME  OUT  WEST. 


A  HOME  OUT  WEST. 

I. 

A  "  prairie  schooner,"  creeping  slow; 

A  way-worn,  jaded  household  band, 
In  eager  voices,  speaking  low — 

Thus  enter  we  the  "promised land." 
Behind  us  now  the  river's  tide 
Rolls  dark  and  murky,  deep  and  wide. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

ii. 

A  warm  May  day ;  a  sweet  soft  rain 

On  a  green  prairie  falling  fast ; 
A  stopping  of  the  creeping  wain, 

And  the  glad  cry,  "We're  home  at  last." 
After  long  weeks  of  travel  sore, 
The  goal  is  won ;  we  ask  no  more. 

Home !  with  our  roof  the  dripping  sky, 
Our  floor  the  rain- soaked  prairie's  breast ! 

Through  all  the  wastes  that  round  us  lie, 
In  wild,  luxuriant  verdure  drest, 

No  tree  extends  its  friendly  bough, 

We  see  no  track  of  spade  or  plough. 

*  *  *  H<  *■  ♦ 

III. 

A  year  has  fled.     What  wondrous  change 

Has  passed  this  way  ?    What  sorcery, 
What  silent  magic,  swift  and  strange, 
Has  wrought  such  wonders  ?     Come  and 
see! 
Where  are  the  green  wastes,    soaked  with 

rain  ? 
You  seek  them  ?    You  shall  seek  in  vain. 

Spring  smiles  again ;  the  sunbeams  play 
On  gabled  roof  and  crystal  pane. 

Spring  smiles  again ;  and  skies  of  May 
Bend  o'er  broad  fields  of  waving  grain. 


OJSf  THE  PRAIRIE.  39 

Here  are  young  orchards ;  and  the  breeze 
Bends  the  lithe  limbs  of  forest  trees. 

The  spring  rains  beat  on  snowy  walls, 
Comely,     though     plain,     snug-built    and 
strong ; 
Through    vine-wreathed    windows    sunshine 
falls, 
With  cheerful  smile,  the  whole  day  long ; 
And  happy  faces,  fresh  and  bright, 
Are  gathered  round  the  lamps  at  night. 

Our  prairie  home  is  sweet  and  dear ; 

The  deep,  rich  soil  holds  honest  wealth ; 
The  airs  we  breathe  are  pure  and  clear ; 

The  free,  strong  winds  waft  life  and  health. 
Here  dwells  Content  from  day  to  day ; 
So— let  the  great  world  go  its  way. 


ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 

Out  on  the  prairie — a  shrieking  storm ! 

How  the  pitiless  cold, 
Driven  from  homes  and  firesides  warm, 

In  its  terrible  hold, 
Here  grapples  and  gripes  with  strength  un- 
told! 

Miles  and  miles,  and  nothing  in  sight, 

Only  sweeps  of  snow — 
That  under  the  dusk  of  the  gathering  night, 

Now  dimmer  grow — 
Breasting  the  winds,  that  fiercely  blow. 

Not  a  friendly  light,  not  a  sheltering  tree, 

On  the  prairie's  breast, 
And  my  failing  feet  sink  under  me ! 

I  am  heavy — oppressed 
With  a  drowsy  weight ;  I  must  stop  and  rest. 


40      A  LESSON  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

No,  I  cannot  go  on !    Here  I  lay  me  down, 
While  the  storm  sweeps  by ; 

Press  on,  if  you  can,  to  the  sheltering  town ; 
In  peace  let  me  lie. 

I  am  not  cold— only  sleepy— good-by. 


A  LESSON  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

The  last  night  of  the  year,  I  sat  alone 

Beside  the  dying  fire.     The  whole  house 
slept. 
Naught  stirred  the  silence,  save  the  wind's 
low  moan, 
As  sadly  through  the  naked  trees  it  crept, 
The  fall  of  embers  and  the  clock's  low  beat, 
That  marked  the  passing  year's  retiring  feet. 

I  was  aweary ;  and  the  coming  year 
Seemed  but  an  added  load  that  pressed  me 
sore. 
The  morrow  would  bring  friends,  and  I  should 
hear 
The  tread  of  many  feet  upon  the  floor. 
I  longed  for  quiet ;  I  was  vexed  with  care ; 
Just  then  my  burden  seemed  too  great  to  bear. 

I  thought  of  my  unopened  books,  my  pen, 
Lying  long  idle,  rusting  in  its  place. 

Could  I  but  take  them  to  some  lonely  glen 
Where  toil  were  not,  nor  any  human  face ! 

"  'Twere  joy,"  cried  I,  so  fretful  was  my  mood 

"  To  dwell  one  year  in  utter  solitude." 

"  Have  then  thy  wish!  "  was  uttered  sad  and 
low; 
I  turned,  and  One  stood  by  me,  fair  and 
tall, 
And  from  his  countenance  with  light  aglow, 
A  look  of  pitying  grief  did  on  me  fall. 


A  LESSON  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR.       41 

"Have  then  thy  wish!"      He  stooped  and 

touched  mine  eyes, 
And  I  stood  dumb,  overwhelmed  with  strange 

surprise. 

The  silent  room  had  vanished,  and  a  wood, 
Peopled  with  birds,  that  filled  its  aisles  with 
song, 
Compassed  me  round  with  sweet  green  soli- 
tude ; 
A  clear  stream  trailed    its    silver    thread 
along ; 
And  close  beside  it  stood  a  rustic  cot, 
Piled  high  with  volumes,   and  here  toil  was 
not. 

Fruits  for  my  food  fell  lightly  at  my  feet ; 

I  was  alone ;  through  all  that  lovely  place 
I  knew  that  I  might  wander,  and  not  meet, 

In  hill  or  hollow,  any  human  face. 
Within  my  books,  all  wit  and  wisdom  blent. 
I  had  my  wish;  was  I  therewith  content? 

Nay,   verily.     A    sharp    grief    pierced    me 

through, 
My  spirit  sank,  oppressed  with  midnight 

gloom, 
While  trees  hung  o'er  me,  wet  with  heaven's 

dew. 
I  felt  as  one  walled  up  within  a  tomb. 
I  sought  my  books ;  locked  were  their  stores 

from  me ; 
The  hot  tears  dimmed  my  sight,  I  could  not 

see. 

I  tried  my  pen— in  vain.    No  words  would 
come. 
Thought  was  an  arid  desert,  wide  and  gray, 
From  which  no  streams  would  flow.     My  soul 
was  dumb 
With  utter  loneliness ;  but  could  I  pray? 


42  GENTLE  SPRING. 

I  cast  me  on  the  fragrant,  dewy  sod, 
My  face  pressed  in  the  grass — and  cried  to 
God. 

' 'Oh!  give  me  back,"  I  prayed,   "the  dear 
days  gone — 
The  toilsome  days,  so  full  of  crowded  care — 
The  hands  I  clasped,  the  lips  that  kissed  my 
own. 
For  these,  for  these,  could  I  all  burdens 
bear ! " 
I  started,  for  a  rustling  robe  trailed  near ; 
And  "  Have  again  thy  wish! "  fell  on  my  ear. 

Again  I  felt  soft,  gentle  fingers  press 
Mine  eyelids  down;  and  lo!  the  dear  old 
room, 
The  smiling  lamplight,  home's  blest   homli- 
ness! 
The  lonely  wood  was   gone,  its  grief,  its 
gloom ; 
And  close  within  my  call  my  dear  ones  slept. 
For  very  joy  I  bowed  my  head  and  wept. 

The  fire  was  dead,  the  moon  shone  on  the 
snow, 
The  wailing  wintry  wind  blew  bitter  cold, 
And  yet  I  laid  me  down  with  heart  aglow, 
For  all  life's  leaden  care  seemed  turned  to 
gold. 
I  slept  the  sleep  of  peace ;  I  rose  at  morn, 
Strong  in  the  glad  New  Year — as  one  new- 
born. 


GENTLE  SPRING. 

These  are  signs  of  gentle  Spring : 
Flocks  of  wild  geese  on  the  wing, 
Flying  in  a  broken  string : 


A  TRAIL  OF  "  '49."  43 

Brooks  that  tumble,  roar  and  rush, 
Sinking  drifts,  and  piles  of  slush, 
And  a  universal  mush. 

Woman  with  a  draggled  dress, 
Puddles  that  seem  bottomless, 
Eoads  all  ditto — such  a  mess ! 

Horses  flounder,  loaded  down; 
Swearing  driver — been  to  town- 
Curses,  plunges — overthrown ! 

Fancy  sleighs  for  sale  at  cost, 
Balmy  breezes,  nipping  frost, 
Wild  March  mornings,  tempest-tost. 

Eobins,  blue,-birds,  sleet  and  snow, 
Icy  winds,  and  sunny  glow — 
What  comes  next  you  never  know. 

Sounds  of  coughs  and  choking  wheezes, 
And  of  loud,  spasmodic  sneezes, 
Mingle  with  the  straying  breezes. 

Handkerchiefs  are  bought  and  sold 

By  the  dozen,  I  am  told. 

Question — "  Have  you  had  your  cold?  " 

Come,  ye  singers,  rise  and  sing ! 
Poets,  tune  your  every  string 
For  an  ode  to  Gentle  Spring. 


A  TKAIL  OF  '"49." 

Across  the  prairie  where  I  dwell, 
Stretches  away,  from  swell  to  swell, 
A  road  that  might  a  story  tell. 

The  track  is  wide  and  deeply  cut 
By  wheels  of  heavy  wagons,  but 
The  rank  grass  grows  in  seam  and  rut. 


44  A  TEAIL  OF  "  '49." 

'Tis  the  old  trail  of  "Forty-nine " ;— 

Thus  history,  in  graven  line, 

Has  stamped  this  prairie  home  of  mine. 

The  years  have  passed,  with  snow  and  rain, 
And  mighty  frosts  upheaved — in  vain — 
For  still  this  track  shows  clear  and  plain. 

Tracing  it  where  it  winds  away, 
There  comes  to  me,  at  twilight  gray, 
A  vision  of  another  day. 

I  see  the  covered  wagons  go, 

Across  the  prairie  toiling  slow, 

Through  dreary  storm,  through  summer  glow. 

I  see  them,  with  their  human  freight — 
Hearts  throbbing  high  with  hope  elate — 
Pass  onward  to  a  doubtful  fate. 

Months  pass ;  a  weary,  jaded  train, 
Worn  with  fatigue,  disease  and  pain, 
Creeps  slowly  o'er  a  desert  plain. 

Above,  a  cloudless,  burning  sky ; 
Below,  naught  greets  the  weary  eye, 
Save  wastes  of  sand  and  alkali. 

No  rains  descend,  no  water  flows ; 

No  cool  trees  bend,  no  green  thing  grows ; 

Yet  still  that  sad  train  onward  goes. 

Fatigue  and  thirst !  no  tongue  can  tell 
The  victim's  anguish,  fierce  and  fell — 
His  fondest  dream  a  bubbling  well. 

And  some  go  mad  and  wildly  rave; 
Some  find  what,  at  the  last,  they  crave, 
The  silence  of  a  desert  grave. 

The  living  speak  in  husky  tones ; 

The  poor  brutes  drop  with  piteous  moans ; 

The  track  is  paved  with  bleaching  bones. 


A   WAYSIDE  THEE.  45 

Still  onward— slower  and  more  slow- 
Dogged  nightly  by  a  stealthy  foe, 
Toward  mountain  passes  choked  with  snow. 

One  sleeps,  to  dream  of  home  and  wife ; 
He  wakes,  at  call  to  midnight  strife 
With  tomahawk  and  scalping-knife. 

******** 
Past  perils,  miseries  untold, 
Past  desert  heat,  past  mountain  cold, 
What  waits  them  in  the  Land  of  Gold? 

Go,  search  a  checkered  history 
Of  soon-got  hoards,  as  soon  to  flee, 
Of  princely  wealth  and  poverty. 

Dark  tales  of  crime,  of  murders  fell, 
Of  drunken  brawl,  of  gambling  hell — 
Good  chroniclers  have  told  them  well. 

Go,  search  them  all,  through  every  line — 
Yet  deign  to  read  this  song  of  mine, 
Of  the  old  trail  of  "  Forty-nine." 


A  WAYSIDE  TEEE. 

I  passed  to-day  through  a  forest 

In  soberest  sombre  drest ; 
Furled  were  the  blood-red  banners, 

Quenched  was  each  flaming  crest. 

The  wind  swept  through  the  branches ; 

The  clouds  hung  low  and  gray, 
Bearing  storms  in  their  bosoms, 

Stealing  the  sun  away. 

The  roar  far  back  in  the  forest, 
The  crackling  above  my  head, 

As  the  crisp  leaves  shook  and  shivered, 
Filled  me  with  nameless  dread. 


46  THE  OLD  BUTTERNUT  THEE. 

Like  the  leaves,  I  shook  and  shivered 
As  the  cold  wind  colder  blew, 

And  the  tread  of  advancing  tempests 
Sounded  the  deep  woods  through. 

Was  there  nothing  left  of  the  summer  ! 

Naught  of  the  autumn  show? 
Nothing  bright  tor  the  winter 

To  fold  in  its  sheets  of  snow? 

Behold !  by  the  dreary  roadside, 

Towering  fair  and  green 
In  the  midst  of  its  sombre  sisters, 

A  single  oak  is  seen. 

Touched  with  spatters  of  crimson, 
Bordered  with  fiery  bands, 

Across  its  resplendent  garments 
The  sun  and  the  frost  clasp  hands. 

I  looked  at  the  tree  in  wonder ! 

It  seemed  like  some  ancient  £age, 
Wearing  his  youthful  freshness 

Along  with  the  frosts  of  age. 

Oh !  the  life  must  be  pure  and  noble 
That  can  keep,  as  the  seasons  go, 

Its  June  and  its  rich  October 
Till  f alleth  the  winter  snow ! 


THE  OLD  BUTTERNUT  TEEE. 

It  stood   by  the    old  front    gate— oh,   long 

ago!— 
Braving  the  summer  storm  and  the  winter 

snow; 
And  fresh   among   memory's   treasures,   so 

dear  to  me, 
Stands  in  perpetual  greenness  that  ancient 

tree. 


THE  OLD  BUTTERNUT  TREE.  47 

Out  on  the  roadside  green,  where  passing  feet 
Turned  to  its  wide-spread  shade  from  the 

dusty  street, 
And  laughing  children,  loitering  home  from 

school, 
Sought,  with  their  cheeks  aflame,  its  shadows 

cool. 

Here  gathered  the  early  birds,  and  built  and 
sung; 

The  oriole's  cunning  nest  from  the  branches 
swung ; 

Its  broad  arms  sheltered  from  the  noontide 
blaze ; 

And  the  nuts  dropped  on  the  turf  in  the  au- 
tumn days. 

In  summer  eves,  when  work  was  laid  away, 
And  rest  and  coolness  ended  the  sultry  day, 
When  up  the  west  the  sunset  unrolled  its 

gold, 
Like  billows  of  gorgeous  sea,  fold  over  fold ; 

Then  gathered  the  household  band  about  the 

knee 
Of  the  old  butternut,  the  homestead  tree. 
They  watched  till  the  glow  went  out  and  dews 

came  down, 
And  the  moon  wore  up  the  east  her  silver 

crown. 

All  were  together  then ;  where  are  they  now  ? 
The  world  is  wide,  as  sundered  dear  ones 

know ; 
And  children,  cradled  on  one  mother's  breast, 
Scatter,   like   eaglets  from   their   mountain 

nest. 

The  brothers  are  bearded  men,  and  threads 

of  gray 
Whiten  the  clustering  locks  from  day  to  clay. 


48  TA UGHT  BY  A  BIRD. 

Each  lights  his  household  fire— so  must  it 

be— 
While  strangers  sit  in  the  shade  of  the  dear 

old  tree. 

But,  one  sleeps  on  the  hill,  one  far  away, 

And  the  gray-haired  sire  has  lain,  this  many 
a  day, 

By  the  side  of  the  mother  who  sang  sweet 
lullabies, 

And  followed  our  childish  feet  with  her  gen- 
tle eyes. 

A  generation  has  passed  and  been  laid  away ; 

But  the  dear  old  roadside  tree  stands  there 
to-day ; 

Hoary,  and  lopped,  and  scarred  by  many  a 
storm, 

Yet  the  summers  still  veil  with  leaves  its  bat- 
tered form. 

Still  stream  through  the  broken  boughs  the 
sunset  rays ; 

Still  drop  the  nuts  on  the  turf  in  the  autumn 
days; 

But  the  olden  joys  can  never  come  back  to 
me, 

And  the  household  gods  have  flown  the  home- 
stead tree. 


TAUGHT  BY  A  BIRD. 

An  April  day:  the  cold  wind  blew, 
The  dark  clouds  lowered,  the  thick  snow  flew, 
And  where  the  springing  grass  lay  green, 
Ragged  patches  of  white  were  seen. 

Snow  everywhere !  I  gazed  with  a  sigh, 
As  the  big  flakes  fell  from  the  gloomy  sky ; 


THEN  AND  NOW.  49 

Loading  the  limbs  of  the  budding  trees, 
Filling  the  hollows  about  their  knees. 

Had    Winter    come    back— the    vanquished 

king— 
And  rudely  throttled  the  maiden,  Spring? 
But  lo !  from  amid  the  storm  I  heard 
The  sweet,  glad  song  of  a  tiny  bird. 

On  a  tufted  twig,  its  feet  in  the  snow, 
Swung  by  the  cold  wind  to  and  fro, 
It  sat  and  sang — that  wee  brown  bird — 
Putting  to  shame  my  petulant  word. 

The  darkness  lifted,  the  storm  was  done ; 
Through  broken  cloud-rifts  shone  the  sun ; 
A  breath  came  up  from  the  south,  and  the 

snow 
Melted  away  in  the  genial  glow. 

Spring  reigned  again ;  and  again  I  heard 
The  joyous  song  of  that  dear  brown  bird. 
With  quickened  pulses,  and  heart  aglow, 
I  caught  the  refrain,  "  I  told  you  so ! " 

Ah,  little  bird,  had  I  faith  like  you, 
When  life  and  the  world  are  dark  to  view ! 
When  lowering  skies  are  above  me  bent, 
Could  I  feel  your  trust  and  your  sweet  con- 
tent! 

You  sang — your  tender  feet  in  the  snow, 
Swung  by  the  cold  wind  to  and  fro. 
Your* faith  was  sure,  and  I  now  repeat 
Over  and  over  the  lesson  sweet. 


THEN   AND   NOW. 

Bleak,  rugged  hills,  o'er  which  the  winter 
snow 

In  wild  gusts  swept ; 
A  sweet  green  vale,  a  calm  lake,  lying  low, 
4 


50  THE  OLD  FARMHOUSE. 

Where  osiers  dipt ; 
A  clear,  cold  spring,  whose  trickling  ov^iiiow 
Through  tall  grass  crept. 

There  were  some  hearts  that  loved  me.    Till 
my  own 

Shall  cease  to  beat, 
Whether  I  tread   smooth  ways,   or  jagged 
stone 

With  bleeding  feet, 
I  still  shall  hold  them  precious.  (Love  alone 
Can  make  life  sweet.) 

Long  years  have  fled.    Still  stand,  deep  scar- 
red and  hoar, 

The  wind-swept  heights ; 
Still  flows  the  spring,  where  parched  lips, 
thirsting  sore, 

Quaff  deep  delights ; 
Still  sleeps  the  lake,  by  moonbeams  silvered 
o'er 

On  summer  nights. 

All  these  remain ;  scarce  changed  the  peace- 
ful scene, 

Yet  men  grow  old. 
Locks  that  were  dark  are  touched  with  frosty 
sheen;— 

Have  hearts  grown  cold? 
To  know  some  few  have  kept  the  old  love 
green — 

'Twere  joy  untold. 


THE  OLD  FARMHOUSE. 

A  crystal  spring,  a  sunny  hill, 
A  gray  old  house  with  mossy  sill, 

Hemmed  in  by  orchard  trees, 
With  massive  trunks  and  age  untold, 
Whose  luscious  fruits,  like  mounds  of  gold 
When  autumn  nights  grow  crisp  and  cold, 

Lay  heaped  about  their  knees. 


THE  OLD  FARMHOUSE.  51 

And  when  the  trees,  bare,  gaunt  and  grim, 
Tossing  aloft  each  naked  limb, 

Breasted  the  sleety  rain ; 
When  summer  sounds  were  heard  no  more, 
When  birds  had  sought  a  Southern  shore, 
When  flowers  lay  dead  about  the  door, 

And  winter  reigned  again : 

Then  met  the  household  band  beside 
A  clean-swept  hearth,  a  chimney  wide, 

Where  roared  a  maple  fire. 
When  all  the  streams  were  fettered  fast, 
When  fiercely  blew  the  wintry  blast, 
And  clouds  of  snow  went  whirling  past, 

The  logs  were  piled  the  higher. 

How  fondly  memory  recalls 

The  cheer  within  those  old  gray  walls, 

,  Beside  that  shining  hearth. 

0  peaceful  scene  of  calm  content ! 
Where  happy  faces  came  and  went, 
And  heart  with  heart  was  closely  blent, 

In  sadness  as  in  mirth ! 

1  see  them  all :  the  aged  sire 

Deep  in  some  book ;  the  glowing  fire 

Gleams  on  his  silver  hair. 
The  mother  knits ;  her  loving  eye 
Smiles  on  the  children  flitting  by ; 
Her  needles,  clicking  as  they  fly, 

Tell  of  her  household  care.  f 

A  group  of  stalwart  boys  I  see, 
Brimful  of  mirth — as  boys  will  be — 

When  evening  tasks  were  done : 
And — least  of  all — a  little  maid, 
Her  small  head  crowned  with  auburn  braid, 
Who,  when  the  merry  games  were  played, 

Was  foremost  in  the  fun. 

How  gay  we  were !    What  songs  we  sang, 
Till  the  old  walls  with  echoes  rang, 


52  FOUND— NOT  TOO  LATE, 

While  the  wind  roared  without. 
Again  we  sat,  wide-eyed  and  pale, 
And  listened  to  some  ancient  tale — 
How  witches  rode  upon  the  gale, 

Or  white  ghosts  roamed  about. 

'T was  long  ago ;  those  days  are  o'er : 
I  hear  those  songs  no  more,  no  more, 

Yet  listen  while  I  weep. 
Time  rules  us  all.    No  joys  abide. 
That  household  band  is  scattered  wide, 
And  some  lie  on  the  green  hillside, 

Wrapped  in  a  dreamless  sleep. 


FOUND— NOT  TOO  LATE. 

From  yonder  church  a  wedding 

Came  forth  one  day, 
Only  in  this  peculiar — 

It  was  late  in  the  day ; 
For  the  locks  of  bride  and  bridegroom 

Were  streaked  with  gray. 

Their  youth  lay  far  behind  them ; 

Alone  had  tried 
The  up-grades  of  life's  mountain 

This  groom  and  bride. 
They  now  clasped  hands  together 

On  the  down-hill  side. 

Broadly  the  stupid  wondered ; 

,    Yet,  still  and  calm, 

Sweet  peace  held  close  above  them 

Her  boughs  of  palm, 
And  touched  the  wounds  of  old  battles 

With  healing  balm. 

A  year  had  passed.     At  nightfall 

I  saw  them  stand 
At  the  door  of  a  vine- wreathed  cottage- 


A  COUNTRY  HOME.  53 

Hand  held  in  hand — 
While  the  tides  of  a  crimson  sunset 
O'erflowed  the  land. 

The  crimson  ebbed ;  the  shadows 

Stole  down  the  dell ; 
With  its  peaceful  benediction, 

The  twilight  fell, 
And  the  faint,  sweet  tone  came  floating 

Of  a  far-off  bell. 

I  listened,  and  heard  a  sentence 

With  meaning  great. 
The  wife  was  whispering  softly, 

"  The  perfect  mate, 
After  long  years  of  waiting, 

Found— not  too  late ! " 


A  COUNTRY  HOME. 

A  nook  among  the  hills,  a  little  farm, 

Whose  fertile  acres  yield  us  daily  bread: 
A  homely,  low-browed  dwelling,   snug  and 
warm, 
With  wide  blue  country  skies  hung  over- 
head. 

No  costly  splendor  here,  no  gilded  glow ; 
No  dear-bought  pictures  hang  upon  the 
walls : 
But  bright  and  happy  faces  come  and  go, 
And  through  the  windows  God's  sweet  sun- 
shine falls. 

We  are  not  rich  in  heaps  of  hoarded  gold : 
We  are  not  poor,  for  we  can  keep  at  bay 

The  poor  man's  haunting  spectres,  want  and 
cold, 
Can  keep  from  owing  debts  we  cannot  pay. 


54  A  COUNTRY  HOME. 

With  wholesome  plenty  is  our  table  spread, 

With  genial  comfort  glows  our  evening  fire ; 
The   fierce    night- winds    may   battle    over 

head — 
s  Safe  in  our  shelter,  though  the  strife  be  dire. 

When  days  grow  long,  and  winter  storms  are 
o'er, 
Here   come   the   first   birds  of  the  early 
spring, 
And  build    their  cunning  nests  beside    the 
door, 
Teaching  sweet  lessons  as  they  work  and 
sing. 

Here  come  our  friends, — a  dear  and  cherished 
few,— 
Dearer,  perchance,  than  if  they  numbered 
more: 
We  greet  them  with  a  hand-clasp  warm  and 
true, 
And  give  them  of  the  best  we  have  in  store. 

What  though  the  rooms  be  small,  and  low 
the  roof? 
What  though  we  can  but  offer  simple  fare? 
It    matters  not;    so  Friendship's  warp  and 
woof 
Are  of  spun  gold,  for  these  we  need  not 
care. 

We  hear  the  great  world  surging  like  a  sea, 
But  the  loud  roar  of  winds  and  waves  at 
war, 

Subdued  by  distance,  comes  melodiously, 
A  soft  and  gentle  murmur,  faint  and  far. 

We  see  the  small  go  up,  the  great  come  down, 
And  bless  the  peaceful  safety  of  our  lot, 

The  broken  sceptre  and  the  toppling  crown, 
And  crash  of  falling  thrones—these  shake 
us  not. 


A  DIBGE.  55 

We    have     some    weary   toil    to    struggle 
through, 
Some  trials,  that  we  bravely  strive  to  meet : 
We  have  our  sorrows,  as  all  mortals  do ; 
We  have   our  joys,  too,  pure,  and  calm, 
and  sweet. 

Is  such  a  life  too  even  in  its  flow? 

Too  silent,  calm,  too  barren  of  event? 
Its  very  joys  too  still?    I  do  not  know; 

I  think  he  conquers  all,  who  wins  content. 


A  DIRGE. 


The  wind  of  Autumn  blows, 

So  cold,  so  cold ; 
The  wind  of  Autumn  blows, 
Dead  is  the  Summer  rose, 

And  the  withered  grass  lies  rotting  on  the 
mould. 

The  frost  creeps  round  the  door, 

So  still,  so  still ; 
The  frost  creeps  round  the  door, 
The  cricket  sings  no  more, 

No  more  at  twilight  pleads  the  whip-po- 
will. 

But  I  hear  the  owlet's  cry, 

Forlorn,  forlorn; 
I  hear  the  owlet's  cry, 
When  the  waning  moon  is  high, 

And  the  raccoon's  greedy  call  among  the 
corn. 

1  mourn  the  Summer  dead, 

So  soon,  so  soon ; 
I  mourn  the  Summer  dead, 
With  all  its  glory  fled, 

As  I  stand  beneath  the  frosty  waning  moon. 


56  THE  WHIP-PO-WILL. 

And  I  think  how  life  is  going — 

So  fast,  so  fast ! 
I  think  how  life  is  going, 
How  swift  its  tides  are  flowing, 

How  we  scarcely  hail  our  Summer,  ere  'tis 
past. 


THE  WHIP-PO-WILL. 

When  softly  over  field  and  town, 
And  over  yonder  wood-crowned  hill, 

The  twilight  drops  its  curtain  down, 
'Tis  then  we  hear  the  whip-po-will. 

From  the  near  shadows  sounds  a  call, 
Clear  in  its  accent,  loud  and  shrill ; 

And  from  the  orchard's  willow  wall 
Comes  the  faint  answer,  "  Whip-po-will." 

The  night  creeps  on ;  the  summer-moon 
Whitens  the  roof  and  lights  the  sill ; 

And  still  the  bird  repeats  his  tune, 
His  one  refrain  of  "  Whip-po-will." 

We  hear  him  not  at  morn  or  noon ; 

Where  hides  he  then  so  dumb  and  still? 
Where  lurks  he,  waiting  for  the  moon? 

Who  ever  saw  a  whip-po-will? 

Where  plies  his  mate  her  household  care? 

In  what  veiled  nook,  secure  from  ill, 
Builds  she  the  tiny  cradle,  where 

Nestles  the  baby  whip-po-will? 

I  cannot  tell, — yet  prize  the  more 
The  unseen  bird,  whose  wild  notes  thrill 

The  evening-gloom  about  my  door, — 
Still  sweetly  calling,  "  Whip-po-will. " 

Asleep  through  all  the  strong  daylight, 
While  other  birds  so  gayly  trill ; 

Waking  to  cheer  the  lonely  night,— 
We  love  thee  well,  O  whip-po-will ! 


THE  THREAD  OF  GRAY.  57 


THE  THREAD  OF  GRAY. 

I  have  woven  a  braid,  with  patient  toil — 

'Tis  the  work  of  many  a  day, 
There  are  colors  bright,  but  through  them  all 

Runs  a  thread  of  sober  gray. 

Blue  and  golden  and  green  and  red 

I  have  blended  as  best  I  may ; 
But  through  them  all  and  binding  them  all 

Runs  the  thread  of  sober  gray. 

The  blue  and  the  gold  twine  out  and  in, 

Like  rainbow  tints  astray ; 
Then  brilliant  strands  of  green  and  red — 

But  always  the  thread  Of  gray. 

I  know  the  colors  will  fade  in  the  sun, 

Growing  fainter  day  by  day, 
Till  one  from  other  you  scarcely  can  tell; 

But  fadeless  the  thread  of  gray. 

And  I  think  how  like  to  an  earnest  life, 

With  its  pleasures  by  the  way. 
While  through  them  all  runs  a  steady  aim, 

Like  a  thread  of  sober  gray. 

There  are  lights  and  laughter  and  feast  and 
song, 

For  labor  must  have  its  play — 
But  over  and  under  and  through  them  all 

Runs  the  thread  of  sober  gray. 

The  mirth  shall  fail  and  the  lights  grow  dim, 

And  the  song  shall  die  away ; 
But  the  worker's  crown  shall  be  his  who  keeps 

To  his  thread  of  sober  gray. 

Alas  for  him  who  into  his  braid 

Weaves  only  the  colors  gay ! 
And  alas  for  the  close  of  the  barren  life 

That  loses  its  thread  of  gray ! 


58  MY  WILD-ROSE. 


MY  WILD -ROSE. 

I  had  a  garden,  which  I  kept 
With  busy  hands  and  tender  care ; 

And  once,  while  carelessly  I  slept, 
Fanned  softly  by  the  drowsy  air, 

A  wild-rose  to  my  garden  crept, 
And  blossomed  there. 

O,  sweet  surprise !    It  seemed  to  me, 
Some  fairy  hand,  my  heart  to  bless, 

Had  brought  it  there,  from  wood  or  lea. 
It  came  unsought — 'twas  loved  no  less ; 

I  stooped  and  touched  it  tenderly, 
With  soft  caress. 

I  grew  to  love  it  passing  well : 
While  strange  exotics,  rich  and  rare, 

With  heart  of  gold  and  crimson  bell. 
Paid  grudgingly  for  constant  care, 

My  wild-rose,  as  in  woodland  dell, 
Bloomed  fresh  and  fair. 

I  watered  not,  I  did  not  prune, 
I  tied  it  not  with  cord  or  thong; 

Yet,  morn  by  morn  and  noon  by  noon, 
Through  days  of  summer,  hot  and  long, 

And  underneath  the  midnight  moon, 
From  branches  strong  — 

Hung  clustered  blossoms  sweet  and  red ; 

And  day  by  day  and  week  by  week, 
I  trod  the  path  which  toward  it  led. 

Whatever  my  mood,  I  did  not  speak, 
But  close  against  it  bowed  my  head 

And  pressed  my  cheek. 

I  think  of  it  with  sudden  thrill ! 

Now  wide  lands  lie,  deep  water  flows, 
Smiles  many  a  vale,  looms  many  a  hill 

Between  me  and  the  garden-close ; 
Yet  fondly  I  remember  still 

My  sweet  wild-rose. 


TAR-AND-FEA  THER  REFORM.  59 


TAR-AND-FEATHER  REFORM.* 

Pour  the  tar  on,  pour  it  thick ; 
Bring  the  feathers,  make  them  stick 
On  her  temples  smooth  and  fair, 
In  the  meshes  of  her  hair : 
There,  now,  shameless  courtesan, 
Charm  your  lovers  if  you  can ! 

But  the  lovers— where  are  they? 
Silently  they  slink  away. 
Boys  must  sow  wild-oats,  you  know ; 
Scold  them  well  and  let  them  go, 
Boys  are  boys ;  to  err  is  human — 
Tar-and-feathers  for  the  woman ! 

Woman?  she  is  but  a  child. 
Well,  no  matter ;  drive  her  wild. 
Young  and  fair?  so  much  the  worse! 
Brand  her  deeper,  let  the  curse 
On  her  young  head  weighing  down, 
Crush  her,  force  her  on  the  town. 

She  is  fallen,  that's  enough, 

Give  her,  henceforth,  kick  and  cuff. 

While  we  work  and  pray  and  weei 

For  the  heathen  o'er  the  deep, 

We  are  saints  of  purity — 

We  are  Christians— don't  you  see? 

When  we  women  have  our  way, 
When  it  comes— that  glorious  day— 
When  we  sit  in  honor  great, 
Piloting  the  ship  of  State, 
All  shall  then,  as  well  as  we, 
Practice  this  our  theory : 

Never  right  a  sinking  boat, 
When  a  woman  is  afloat; 

*  Written  after  the  women  of  a  town  in  Iowa  had  mobbed 
and  tarred-and- feathered  a  young  girl  of  sixteen. 


60  AN  EVENING  MONOLOGUE. 

If  her  record  holds  a  flaw, 
Do  not  throw  her  e'en  a  straw ; 
Kick  her  roughly,  push  her  down ; 
Hold  her  under,  let  her  drown ! 


AN  EVENING  MONOLOGUE. 

Friend  of  my  soul,  come,  sit  by  me 
In  this  evening  calm,  with  the  sun  gone 
down. 
While  the  wide  west  glows  like  a  crimson 
sea, 
Flooding  with  splendor  the  fields  and  the 
town. 

Talk  if  you  will,  or  idly  dream, 
With  your  gaze  on  the  track  of  the  van- 
ished sun. 
Our  thoughts  shall  blend  though  silent  the 
stream ; 
Speech  and  silence  to  us  are  one. 

Up  from  the  south  comes  a  breath  of  spring ; 

It  flutters  your  beard  and  it  lifts  your  hair ; 
Yonder  a  robin,  with  folded  wing, 

Sits  and  sings  in  the  branches  bare. 

Sweet  hour  of  peace  t  on  the  prairies  brown, 
On  the  quiet  homestead's  dun-gray  walls, 

On  the  silent  lanes,  on  the  distant  town. 
Like  a  benediction  the  twilight  falls. 

Slowly,  softly,  the  roseate  glow 
Pales,  yet  lingers ;  the  robin's  tune 

Is  hushed  to  silence ;  a  silver  bow 
Hangs  on  high— 'tis  the  white  new  moon. 

The  moments  pass.    See  that  moving  gleam ! 

Nearer  it  comes,  swift,  weirdly  bright ; 
And  a  train,  life-laden,  with  eerie  scream, 

Sweeps  down  the  valley  into  the  night. 


BAYS  WE  REMEMBER.  61 

The  moments  pass.    We  are  wrapped  about 
With  thickening  shadows;  one  by  one, 

In  the  deep,  dark  blue,  the  stars  shine  out. 
Night  and  silence— the  day  is  done. 

Oft  have  we  watched  the  daylight  fade, 
But  a  time  must  come  we  know — the  last. 

And  the    sweep  of    the    years  will  not  be 
stayed ; 
That  on-coming  night  is  hastening  fast. 

Once,   then,    to  watch  while    the  darkness 
creeps, 

And  you  or  I— oh!  which  shall  it  be?— 
Must  wake  and  weep  while  the  other  sleeps, 

Old  and  alone— ah,  me!  ah,  me! 


DAYS  WE  REMEMBER. 

Days  that  glide  in  an  even  rhyme 
To  which  our  feet  keep  steady  time — 

Be  they  in  May  or  December ; — 
Days  when  life  is  a  summer  sea, 
Whereon  our  ships  rock  dreamily ; 
Days  when  an  easy  round  of  care, 
Is  all  the  load  that  our  shoulders  bear; 
Days  that  a  calm  succession  keep 
Of  peaceful  labor  and  peaceful  sleep ; 
Days  that  serenely  slip  away, 
With  little  of  sorrow,  yet  scarcely  gay;— 

Are  not  the  days  we  remember. 

Days  that  are  fraught  with  throbs  of  bliss, 
With  love's  caress,  with  love's  close  kiss — 

Be  they  in  May  or  December ; — 
Days  when  rush  through  our  wilderness 
Whelming  torrents  of  happiness  j 
Days  when  the  heart,  in  its  joyous  swell, 
Beats  and  throbs  like  a  festive  bell ; 
And  days,  oh !  days  when  we  sit  alone 
With  dumb,  white  lips  that  make  no  moan, 


62  THE  SLEEPING  VILLAGE. 

By  close-sealed  vaults,  whose  chambers  cold 
Our  loveliest,  dearest  treasures  hold ; 
When,  as  the  heavy  hours  drag  by, 
We  long — and  long  in  vain — to  die ; — 
These  are  the  days  we  remember. 


THE  SLEEPING  VILLAGE. 

The  village  sleeps ;  the  moonbeams  fall, 
Pale,  still,  and  cold,  on  roof  and  wall, 

And  flood  the  empty  street. 
How  still !    The  dust  lies  all  unstirred ; 
No  sound  of  rolling  wheels  is  heard, 

No  tread  of  passing  feet. 

Where  traffic  hurried  to  and  fro, 
Only  the  night-winds  come  and  go, 

Whirling  the  dead  leaves  by. 
The  cold  lake  laps  its  pebbled  shore ; 
And  round  each  closely-bolted  door 

The  frost  creeps  silently. 

The  village  sleeps — O  blessed  rest ! 
With  hard  hands  folded  on  its  breast, 

Lies  overburdened  Toil ; 
Grief  smiles  in  dreams,  its  woe  forgot ; 
Pale  Want  forgets  its  dreary  lot ; 

The  springs  of  Care  uncoil. 

The  fevers  that  infest  the  day 
Yield  to  the  night,  and  sink  away 

To  pulses  soft  and  even. 
E'en  Joy  is  still ;  Love  nestles  deep 
In  clasping  arms,  whose  touch  makes  sleep 

A  calm  as  sweet  as  Heaven. 

The  night  grows  deeper ;  colder  falls 
The  moonlight  on  the  silent  walls ; 

Still  creeps  the  stealthy  frost ; 
And  deeper  grows  the  calm  of  rest 
In  throbbing  brain  and  troubled  breast, 

By  day  so  passion-tost. 


A  BRIDE  OF  A  DAY.  63 

O  blessings  priceless,  Night  and  Sleep ! 
Did  never  close  the  eyes  that  weep ; 

Did  struggle  never  cease ; 
Did  ne'er  the  balm  of  Rest  come  down 
Upon  the  weary,  toiling  town — 

Then  death  were  sole  release. 


A  BRIDE  OF  A  DAY. 

Oh  !  sing  a  song,  in  low  soft  notes — 

Tender,  and  sweet,  and  sad — 
For  her  who  lies  all  pallid,  still, 

In  her  last  garments  clad. 

A  fair  young  bride  of  but  a  day — 

(Sing  low,  sing  soft  and  low)— 
And  yet,  and  yet  her  bed  must  be 

Under  the  drifting  snow. 

Under  the  drifting  snow— ah  me — 

To  lie  in  her  frozen  sleep, 
While  love,  bereft,  with  empty  arms, 

Is  left  to  wake  and  weep. 

But  yestermorn,  how  bright  her  smile ! 

How  soft  the  blush  that  rose, 
Mantling  the  white  of  neck  and  brow, 

As  sunset  tints  the  snows. 

With  tender  light  her  dark  eyes  shone ; 

Sweet  was  the  roseate  glow ; 
Alas !  how  little  thought  we  then, 

Her  sun  had  dipped  so  low. 

Through  all  the  hours  one  mourner  sits, 

Watching  her  pulseless  rest, 
With  dumb,  white  lips  and  hopeless  look, 

And  head  bowed  on  his  breast. 

Ah,  death !  thy  ways  are  dark  and  strange- 
Passing  age,  sorrow  by. 

While  youth  and  joy  along  thy  track 
All  scathed  and  blasted  lie. 


64  FARMER  JOHN. 


FARMER  JOHN. 


"  If  I'd  nothing  to  do,"  said  Farmer  John, 

"  To  fret  or  to  bother  me — 
Were  I  but  rid  of  this  mountain  of  work,  , 

What  a  good  man  I  could  be ! 

"  The  pigs  get  out,  and  the  cows  get  in, 

Where  they  have  no  right  to  be ; 
And  the  weeds  in   the  garden  and  in  the 
corn — 

Why,  they  fairly  frighten  me. 

"  It  worries  me  out  of  temper  quite, 

And  well-nigh  out  of  my  head. 
What  a  curse  it  is  that  a  man  must  toil 

Like  this  for  his  daily  bread ! " 

But  Farmer  John  he  broke  his  leg, 

And  was  kept  for  many  a  week 
A  helpless  and  an  idle  man ; — 

Was  he  therefore  mild  and  meek? 

Nay ;  what  with  the  pain,  and  what  with  the 
fret 
Of  sitting  with  nothing  to  do— 
And  the  farm  work  botched  by  a  shiftless 
hand, 
He  got  very  cross  and  blue. 

He  scolded  the  children  and  cuffed  the  dog 

That  fawned  about  his  knee ; 
And  snarled  at  his  wife,  though  she  was  kind 

And  patient  as  wife  could  be. 

He  grumbled  and  whined  and  fretted  and 
fumed, 

The  whole  of  the  long  day  through. 
"  'Twill  ruin  me  quite,"  cried  Farmer  John, 

"  To  sit  here  with  nothing  to  do !  " 


BEAUTIFUL    THINGS.  65 

But  time  wore  on,  and  he  thoughtful  grew, 

As  he  watched  his  patient  wife, 
And  he  vowed  one  morn  with  a  tear  in  his 
eye, 

He  would  lead  a  different  life. 

His  hurt  got  well,  and  he  went  to  work ; 

And  a  busier  man  than  he, 
A  happier  man,  or  a  pleasanter  man, 

You  never  would  wish  to  see. 

The  pigs  got  out,  and  he  drove  them  back, 

Whistling  right  merrily ; 
He  mended  the  fence,  and  kept  the  cows 

Just  where  they  ought  to  be. 

Weeding  the  garden  was  jolly  fun, 

And  ditto  hoeing  the  corn. 
44  I'm  happier  far,"  said  Farmer  John, 

"  Than  I've  been  since  I  was  born." 

He  learned  a  lesson  that  lasts  him  well  ;— 
'Twill  last  him  his  whole  life  through. 

He  frets  but  seldom,  and  never  because 
He  has  plenty  of  work  to  do. 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  says  Farmer  John, 
u  They  are  either  knaves  or  fools 

Who  long  to  be  idle,  for  idle  hands 
Are  the  Devil's  chosen  tools ! " 


BEAUTIFUL  THINGS. 

Beautiful  faces  are  those  that  wear — 
•  It  matters  little  if  dark  or  fair — 
Whole-souled  honesty  printed  there. 

Beautiful  eyes  are  those  that  show, 

Like  crystal  panes  where  hearth-fires  glow, 

Beautiful  thoughts  that  burn  below. 

Beautiful  lips  are  those  whose  words 
Leap  from  the  heart  like  songs  of  birds, 
Yet  whose  utterance  prudence  girds. 
5 


66  THE  WILD-ROSE. 

Beautiful  hands  are  those  that  do 
Work  that  is  earnest  and  brave  and  true, 
Moment  by  moment  the  long  day  through. 

Beautiful  feet  are  those  that  go 
On  kindly  ministries  to  and  fro — 
Down  lowliest  ways,  if  God  wills  it  so. 

Beautiful  shoulders  are  those  that  bear 

Ceaseless  burdens  of  homely  care 

With  patient  grace  and  with  daily  prayer. 

Beautiful  lives  are  those  that  bless— 

Silent  rivers  and  happiness, 

Whose  hidden  fountains  but  few  may  guess. 

Beautiful  twilight,  at  set  of  sun, 
Beautiful  goal  with  race  well  won, 
Beautiful  rest,  with  work  well  done. 

Beautiful  graves,  where  grasses  creep, 
Where  brown  leaves  fall,  where  drifts  lie  deep 
Over  worn-out  hands — oh  beautiful  sleep ! 


THE  WILD-KOSE. 

Peeping  from  out  the  hedges, 

Bending  above  the  brim 
Of  the  stream  that  threads  the  meadows. 

Fringing  the  forest  dim. 

Stealing  into  my  garden, 

Waiting  not  for  my  call ; 
Scaling  the  ancient  gateway, 

Creeping  under  the  wall. 

Climbing  the  mossed  enclosure 
Yonder,  where  willows  wave, 

Nestling  against  the  tombstone, 
Clustered  on  every  grave. 

Cherished  by  none,  yet  blooming 

Silently  everywhere ; 
Asking  for  naught,  yet  giving, 

Lavish  as  summer  air. 


KNITTING.  67 


I  love  thee,  rose  of  the  hedges, 
Rose  of  the  streamlet's  rim ; 

Meek  adorner  of  tombstones, 
Fringe  of  the  forest  dim. 


KNITTING. 


An  old-time  kitchen,  an  open  door, 

Sunshine  lying  across  the  floor ; 

A  little  maid,  feet  bare  and  brown, 

Cheeks  like  roses,  a  cotton  gown, 

Rippling  masses  of  shining  hair, 

And  a  childish  forehead  smooth  and  fair. 

The  child  is  knitting.    The  open  door 
Wooes  her,  tempts  her,  more  and  more. 
The  sky  is  cloudless,  the  air  is  sweet, 
And  sadly  restless  the  bare  brown  feet. 
Still,  as  she  wishes  her  task  were  done, 
She  counts  the  rounds  off,  one  by  one. 

Higher  yet  mounts  the  sun  of  June ; 
But  one  round  more !— A  joyous  tune 
Ripples  out  from  the  childish  lips, 
While  swift  and  swifter  the  finger-tips 
Play  out  and  in,  till  I  hear  her  say, 
; '  Twenty  rounds !    I'm  going  to  play  I ' ' 

Up  to  the  hedge  where  the  sweet-brier  blows, 
Down  to  the  bank  where  the  brooklet  flows, 
Chasing  the  butterflies,  watching  the  bees, 
Wading  in  clover  up  to  her  knees, 
Mocking  the  bobolinks ;  oh,  what  fun 
It  is  to  be  free  when  the  task  is  done ! 

Years  and  years  have  glided  away, 

The  child  is  a  woman,  and  threads  of  gray 

One  by  one  creep  into  her  hair, 

And  I  see  the  prints  of  the  feet  of  care. 

Yet  I  like  to  watch  her.    To-night  she  sits 

By  her  household  fire,  and  as  then  she  knits. 


68  SEPTEMBER. 

Swiftly  the  needles  glance,  and  the  thread 
Glides  through  her  fingers,  white  and  red. 
'Tis  a  baby's  stocking.     To  and  fro, 
And  out  and  in  as  the  needles  go, 
She  sings  as  she  sang  that  day  in  June, 
But  the  low,  soft  strain  is  a  nursery  tune. 

Close  beside  her  the  baby  lies, 
Slowly  closing  his  sleepy  eyes. 
Forward,  backward,  the  cradle  swings, 
Touched  by  her  foot  as  she  softly  sings. 
And  now  in  silence  her  watch  she  keeps ; 
The  song  is  hushed,  for  the  baby  sleeps. 

Up  from  the  green,  through  the  twilight  gray, 
Come  the  shouts  of  a  troop  at  play. 
Blue  eyes,  black  eyes,  golden  curls— 
These  are  all  hers— her  boys  and  girls. 
Then  wonder  not  at  the  prints  of  care, 
Or  the  silver  threads  in  her  braided  hair. 

Does  she  ever  pine  for  the  meadow  brook, 
The  sweet-brier  hedge,  the  clover  nook? 
When  sweet  winds  woo,  when  smiles  the  sun, 
Does  she  ever  wish  that  her  task  was  done? 
Would  you  know?     Then  watch  her  where 

she  sits, 
Smiling  dreamily,  while  she  knits. 


SEPTEMBER. 


'Tis  Autumn  in  our  Northern  land. 

The  Summer  walks  a  Queen  no  more; 
Her  sceptre  drops  from  out  her  hand ; 

Her  strength  is  spent,  her  passion  o'er. 
On  lake  and  stream,  on  field  and  town, 
The  placid  sun  smiles  calmly  down. 

The  teeming  Earth  its  fruit  has  borne ; 

The  grain-fields  lie  all  shorn  and  bare ; 
And  where  the  serried  ranks  of  corn 

Waved  proudly  in  the  summer-air, 


A  DREAM.  69 

And  bravely  tossed  their  yellow  locks, 
Now  thickly  stand  the  bristling  shocks. 

On  sunny  slope,  on  crannied  wall 
The  grapes  hang  purpling  in  the  sun ; 

Down  to  the  turf  the  brown  nuts  fall, 
And  golden,  apples  one  by  one. 

Our  bins  run  o'er  with  ample  store — 

Thus  Autumn  reaps  what  Summer  bore. 

The  mill  turns  by  the  waterfall ; 

The  loaded  wagons  go  and  com£; 
All  day  I  hear  the  teamster's  call, 

All  day  I  hear  the  thresher's  hum ; 
And  many  a  shout  and  many  a  laugh 
Come  breaking  through  the  clouds  of  chaff. 

Gay,  careless  sounds  of  homely  toil ! 

With  mirth  and  labor  closely  blent, 
The  weary  tiller  of  the  soil 

Wins  seldom  wealth,  but  oft  content. 
'Tis  better  still  if  he  but  knows 
What  sweet,  wild  beauty  round  him  glows. 

The  brook  glides  toward  the  sleeping  lake— 
Now  babbling  over  shining  stones ; 

Now  under  clumps  of  bush  and  brake, 
Hushing  its  brawl  to  murmuring  tones; 

And  now  It  takes  its  winding  path 

Through  meadows  green  with  aftermath. 

The  frosty  twilight  early  falls, 

But  household  fires  burn  warm  and  red. 
The  cold  may  creep  without  the  walls, 

And  growing  things  lie  stark  and  dead — 
No  matter,  so  the  hearth  be  bright 
When  household  faces  meet  at  night. 


A  DREAM. 


I  dreamed  a  dream  in  a  winter  night, 
When  sullen  winds  blew  about  the  door, 

And  over  the  snow-fields,  cold  and  white, 
And  through  the  forests  with  muffled  roar. 


70  A  SONG  OF  PEACE. 

Through  all  the  wintry  sounds,  I  heard 

The  rustle  of  a  tiny  wing ; 
And  wildly  carolled  a  dear  brown  bird — 

The  bird  that  sings  at  the  gates  of  Spring. 

My  pulses  leaped  in  a  sudden  thrill ! 
Was  the  Winter  gone?    I  thought  in  my 
sleep — 
Had  the  Spring  come  in  with  that  silvery  trill  ? 
Would   storms   no   longer   their   wassails 
keep? 

I  woke — and  there  came,  in  frosty  bars, 
The  light  of  a  pale  and  filmy  moon, 

And  the  far,  faint  twinkle  of  misty  stars ; 
And  cold  winds  chanted  their   midnight 
tune. 

Gone  was  the  rustle  of  tiny  wing ; 

Silent  the  song  of  the  dear  brown  bird ; 
Closely  barred  stood  the  gates  of  Spring, 

And  the  chant  of  the  winds  was  all  I  heard ! 

So  the  pilgrim  dreams ;  and  he  hears  afar 
The  harps  of  gold ;  and  the  radiant  gleam 

Comes  flashing  through  the  gates  ajar 
Of  the  Sea  of  Glass,  and  the  Crystal  Stream. 

But   he  wakes;  and   closed  are  the  pearly 
gates ; 
Gone  is  the  music,  the  flash  and  gleam ; 

But  he  goes  his  way,  and  in  patience  waits- 
He  goes  his  way,  but  he  keeps  his  dream ! 


A  SONG  OF  PEACE. 

Sing  me  a  song  to-night, 

Not  sad,  nor  yet  keyed  to  mirth ; 
But  a  household  lay,  in  a  soothing  voice, 

As  the  cricket  sings  on  the  hearth. 


DON'T  YOU  TELL.  71 

No  loud  high-soaring  strains, 
When  body  and  brain  are  spent ; 

But  I  long  to  listen  with  half-shut  lids, 
To  a  song  of  sweet  content. 

Let  the  notes  drop  from  your  lips, 
Like  summer  rain  from  the  eaves, 

Or  the  dreamy  tinkle  of  far-off  bells 
That  comes  through  whispering  leaves. 

Let  me  hold  your  hand  the  while— 

Your  hand  so  firm  and  fine ; 
Its  soft,  warm  clasp  is  a  touch  of  peace, 

And  its  pulses  shall  quiet  mine. 

Sing  on,  so  soft  and  low ; 

Dispelled  by  the  soothing  strain, 
Gone  the  heat  from  my  throbbing  brow, 

xlnd  the  ache  from  heart  and  brain. 

Sing  on ;  your  breath  at  my  cheek, 

Your  hand  still  clasping  mine ; 
Your  voice  and  your  touch,  my  household 
bird, 

Are  sweeter  and  better  than  mine. 


DON'T  YOU  TELL. 

If  you  have  a  cherished  secret, 

Don't  you  tell  :— 
Not  your  friend— for  his  tympanum 

Is  a  bell, 
"With  its  echoes,  wide-rebounding, 
Multiplied  and  far-resounding,— 

Don't  you  tell. 

If,  yourself,  you  cannot  keep  it, 

Then,  who  can? 
Could  you  more  expect  of  any 

Other  man? 
Yet  you  put  him,  if  he  tells  it, 
If  he  gives  away  or  sells  it, 

Under  ban. 


ACCEPTANCE. 

Sell  your  gems  to  any  buyer 

In  the  mart : 
Of  your  wealth,  to  feed  the  hungry, 

Spare  a  part. 
Blessings  on  the  open  pocket ! 
But  your  secret — keep  it,  lock  it 

In  your  heart. 


ACCEPTANCE. 


That  man  is  wisest  who  accepts  his  lot, 
Yet  mends  it  where  he  can — glad  if  there 
grows 
Some  lowly  flower  beside  his  lonely  cot, 
E'en  while  he  plants  and  tends  his  Alpine 
rose. 

Some  good  comes  to  us  all.    No  poverty 
But  has  some  precious  gift  laid  at  its  door. 

We  scorn  it,  call  it  small ;  what  fools  are  we, 
To  spurn  the  less  because  it  is  not  more! 

There  are  some  thirsty  souls,  all  sick  and 
faint 
With  longing  for  the  cup  that  is  denied. 
Would  they  but  stoop  and  drink,  without 
complaint, 
From  the  near  stream,  and  so  be  satisfied. 

There  are  some  hungry  hearts  that  well  nigh 
break 
With  the  dull  soreness  of  mere  emptiness. 
To  fill  the  void  and  soothe  the  weary  ache, 
Let  them  but  strive  some  other  hearts  to 
bless. 

There  are  some  idle  hands  that  reach  afar 
For  wider  mission,   some  great  work  of 
fame. 

Would  they  but  grapple  in  life's  daily  war, 
Reward  awaits  them,  nobler  than  a  name. 


DEEP  WATERS.  73 

O    thirsty    souls!     O    hungry    hearts,    and 
hands, 
Weary  with  idleness !  take  what  you  may 
Of  proffered  good ;  accept  life  as  it  stands, 
And  make  the  most  of  its  swift-fleeting 
day. 


DEEP   WATERS. 


Laughing  and  shouting  its  rocks  among, 

The  brook  threads  the  upland  lea : 
But,  for  all  its  song  so  loudly  sung, 
And  the  small  uproar  of  its  babbling  tongue, 
'Tis  a  shallow  thing  in  its  glee. 

Solemn  and  still  doth  the  river  go, 
As  it  winds  through  its  vale  of  rest : 

Calm  in  its  mien  and  its  tide  is  slow ; 

Smooth  is  its  face  and  its  voice  is  low — 
Yet  fleets  may  ride  on  its  breast. 

Oh !  the  river  is  great  in  its  silent  might, 

As  it  rolleth  eternally : 
But,  with  all  its  calm,  so  still,  so  bright, 
In  a  passionate  longing,  day  and  night, 

It  stretcheth  its  hands  to  the  sea. 

The  brook  and  the  river  are  each  a  life ; 

And  the  one  all  men  may  know; 
For  its  fretful  current  with  noise  is  rife, 
And  its  grief  and  joy,  and  its  petty  strife, 

Are  seen  in  its  shallow  flow. 

The  other  so  peaceful  seems,  so  still ; 

And  we  fancy  a  soul  at  rest : 
But,  little  we  know  what  strength  of  will, 
What  mighty  pulses,  that  throb  and  thrill, 

Are  hid  in  a  silent  breast. 

A  clear,  cool  eye,  with  a  changeless  glow, 

The  clasp  of  a  steady  palm, 
May  cover  a  tide  that  sweeps  below, 
In  a  strong,  a  resistless  undertow, 

Yet  we  say,  "  How  cool  and  calm ! " 


74  TO  MBS.  C.  H.  PHILLIPS. 


SHADOWS. 

Gray,  cold  and  gray 

Is  the  desolate  winter  sky. 
As  the  colorless  daylight  fades  away 

And  a  starless  night  draws  nigh, 
I  sit  in  my  darkening  room 
By  the  fire,— it  is  burning  low, 
While  Fancy  weaves  in  her  pauseless  loom, 
And  swift  and  silent,  amid  the  gloom, 
Her  shuttle  glides  to  and  fro. 

Sad,  sombre  and  sad 

Is  the  web  that  she  weaves  to-night ; 
And  it  wraps  my  soul  as  the  world  is  clad 

In  the  desolate  evening  light. 
Strange  is  this  nameless  sorrow ! 
I  weep,  and  I  scarce  know  why. 
Is  it  the  frown  of  some  dark  to-morrow 
That  looms  above  me,  and  must  I  borrow 
Grief  from  the  by-and-by? 

Why,  Fancy,  why 

Hast  thou  done  so  ill  thy  task? 
Instead  of  a  gloom  like  the  starless  sky, 

Oh,  give  me  the  thing  I  ask. 
It  is  just  as  easy  to  rear 
A  sunny  castle  in  Spain 
As  to  conjure  up  some  shape  of  fear, 
Some  shadowy  grief  that  wrings  a  tear 
From  the  ache  of  a  nameless  pain. 


TO  MRS.  C.  H.  PHILLIPS. 

Brave  woman,   treading,    with   unfaltering 
feet, 
A  path  of  sorrow,  wet  with  many  a  tear, 
Sustaining,  with  a  courage  rare  and  sweet, 
Your  heavy  weight  of  grief,  so  hard  to 
bear; 


TO  MRS.  C.  H,  PHILLIPS.  75 

A  sister  greets  you.     Could  my  lips  but  speak 
In  language  sweet  and  tender,  strong  and 
true, 
All  the  full  sympathies  that  utterance  seek, 
Some  crumb  of  comfort  it  might  bring  to 
you. 

I  know  you  well.    I  mark  your  sunny  face, 
Your  bright  and  kindly  smile,  your  cheer- 
ful tone ; 
Yet,  hidden  close  within  its  sacred  place, 
I  know  that  patient  grief  still  holds  its 
throne. 

All  that  your  friends  can  give  you  gladly 
take; 
You   bid   them   welcome   to  your   lovely 
home; 
And  yet  your  heart  still  holds  its  weary  ache, 
Its  darkened  chambers  where  no  friend  can 
come. 

The  lonely  night,  with  dreams  of  pleasures 

past, 

The  waking  but  to  feel  they  are  no  more ; 

The  long,  long  days    (they  once    did  fly  so 

fast!) 

The  sense  of  dreary  loss,  the  longing  sore ; 

I  know  all  these ;  and  yet  I  know  that  Time — 
Time,  the  dread  spoiler— hath  a  touch  of 
healing. 
O'er  cherished  graves  snow  falls,  and  winter 
rime; 
Cool  grasses  creep,  and  moss  comes  softly 
stealing. 

Earth  hath  a  tender  clasp.     In  slumber  deep 
Folds  she  our  dear  ones  to  her  peaceful 
breast. 

For  them  all  trial  ends  •  so,  let  us  weep 
Few  bitter  tears  o'er  their  untroubled  rest. 


76    FBIENDS  THAT  I  USED  TO  KNOW, 

No  need  that  we  forget ;  let  grief  pass  by, 
While  we  live  o'er   the   tender,   precious 
hours, 
The  touch,  the  kiss — so  dear  to  memory. 
These   are    our  own — sweet,   never-fading 
flowers. 

Sad  are  our  partings,  dark  the  night  of  sor- 
row; 
Yet  blest  are  we,  if  hope  descry  the  dawn ; 
If  faith  reach  forward  to  a  sweet  to-morrow, 
Whose  joys  await  us  when  the  night  is 
gone. 


FRIENDS  THAT  I  USED  TO  KNOW. 

The  storm  of  the  day  is  past ; 

The  rain  has  a  fainter  sound ; 
Yet  low-hung  clouds  their  misty  skirts 

Trail  over  the  sodden  ground. 

The  heavy  twilight  falls ; 

The  clouds  trail  more  and  more, 
And  the  early  darkness  stealthily  creeps 

Up  to  the  farmhouse  door. 

I  sit,  in  the  gathering  night, 

By  the  fire — it  is  burning  low — 
And  think,  with  a  longing  akin  to  pain, 

Of  the  friends  that  I  used  to  know. 

And  a  thrilling  vision  sweeps 
Through  the  chambers  of  my  brain ; 

Gone  are  the  mist,  the  darkening  room, 
And  the  prairies,  soaked  with  rain. 

I  see  the  friends  I  love, 

(I  shall  love  them  evermore) 
And  I  look    in  their  eyes  and  clasp  their 
hands, 

Beneath  a  vine-wreathed  door. 


DICK  AND  L  77 

Yonder  are  wood- crowned  hills, 

Flaming  with  gold  and  red : 
I  hear  the  brawl  of  a  fretting  brook, 

Swollen  high  in  its  rocky  bed. 

The  orchard,  the  willow  hedge, 
The  pasture  with  cows,  and  the  well, 

The  giant  hickory  near  the  gate, 
On  guard,  like  a  sentinel. 

I  see  all  these,  as  I  stand 

In  the  autumn  sunset's  glow, 
And  talk  and  listen,  with  throbbing  heart, 

To  the  iriends  I  used  to  know. 

I  start — and  the  vision  fades, 

The  fire  is  dead,,  and  the  light 
Is   gone   from  the    dripping  and  darkened 
panes : 

I  sit  alone  in  the  night. 


DICK  AND  I. 


I  had  a  lover  once — 'twas  long  ago — 
I  must  have  been  some  eight  or  nine,  or  so, 
And  he  perhaps  was  ten.     He  had  blue  eyes, 
And  hair  like  cotton-weed,  that  floats  and 

flies, 
Or— better,  like  a  hank  of  bleachen  flax. 
He   was    not    handsome— but,    I'm    telling 

"fax," 
And  must  be  accurate.    A  "poet's  lie " 
May  always  be  aesthetic— reason  why— 
The  poet  paints  from  out  his  own  invention, 
While  I — I've  only  actual  truths  to  mention. 

I  loved  him.    If  all  else  were  homely  prose, 
There's  poetry  in  that.    A  bright  red  rose 
Creeps  through  a  cranny  in  a  naked  wall, 
And  blossoms  there ;— it  is  a  rose,  for  all. 


78  DICK  AND  L 

My  rose  bloomed  early,  and  its  growth  was 
quick — 

Much  like  a  mushroom's.  Ah,  white-headed 
Dick! 

If  this  should  meet  your  eye,  you  will  re- 
member 

One  rainy  day — 'twas  in  the  gray  November. 

A  monstrous  kettle  hanging  from  the  crane, 
With  steam  clouds  rolling  up  to  meet  the 

rain ; 
A  great  old  fireplace,  with  wide  open  maw; 
Two  children  sucking  cider  through  a  straw ; 
Such  was  the  tableau ;  as  the  night  closed  in, 
The  firelight  with  the  darkness  fought  to  win, 
Pushing  the  shadows  back  against  the  walls, 
Where  bacon  hung,  dried  apples,  coats  and 

shawls. 

The  night  grew  darker.     Still  the  autumn 

rain 
Beat  with  its  wet  hands  on  the  window  pane ; 
But  we  two  liked  it  well.     We  put  together 
Our   two    small  heads,   and    sagely  on   the 

weather 
Exchanged  congratulations.     No  moonlight. 
The  steady  rain — sure,  Dick  must  stay  all 

night. 

We  had  it  settled,  and  we  went  to  play. 
"Blindfold,"     "I    spy,"     and    even     "Pull 

away," 
Came  on  in  turn.     The  evening  was   near 

spent, 
And  nought  had  troubled  our  complete  con- 
tent; 
But  perfect  happiness — we  grasp  it,  fold  it, 
Thinking  it  ours,  alas !  we  never  hold  it 
For  any  length  of  time.     It  slips,  and  quivers, 
And  something  hits  and  knocks  it  into  shiv- 
ers. 


SEEING  THE  EDITORS.  79 

And  this  is  what  hit  ours— this  the  shock 
That  fell  upon  our  peace  at  nine  o'clock. 
Fate  lifted  up  its  hand  so  hard  and  grim, 
And  struck  this  blow:  Dick's  mother  sent  for 
him  I 

He  cried,  and  so  did  I.     Ah  well, 

It  is  a  simple  story  that  I  tell, 

And  you   may  laugh,   perchance— yet  it  is 

real, 
And  serves  to  show  the  griefs  that  children 

feel, 
Which  grown  folks  do  not  count  on.    I  have 

seen  . 

Since  then  some  sorrow,  some  pangs  sharp 

and  keen; 
Have  even  dreamed  I  stood  at  Heaven's  door, 
And  saw  it  shut  on  me  forevermore. 
Yet  that  one  night,  so  gloomy,  and  so  wet, 
With  rain  and  teais,  I've  not  forgotten  yet. 


SEEING  THE  EDITORS. 

I  went  to  see  the  Editors,  in  great  Milwaukee 

town, 
And  some  were  old,  with  hoary  hair,  some 

young,  with  locks  of  brown, 
But,  old  or  young,  or  tail  or  short,  when  all 

was  said  and  done, 
They  seemed  a  goodly  set  of  men  as  e'er  the 

sun  shone  on. 

They  had  come  from  north  and  south,  they 

had  come  from  east  and  w est, 
Down  from  the  northern  pine  lands,  up  from 

the  prairie's  breast. 
Men  of  the  Leading  Journals,   men  of  the 

Local  Sheet, 
Came  flocking  in  together,  and  I  watched 

them  meet  and  greet. 


80  SEEING  THE  EDITOBS. 

At  this  I  greatly  wondered ;  I  saw  each  meet 

the  other, 
With  a  smile  and  a  clasping  hand,  as  if  he 

were  his  brother. 
Fair  words  and  kindly  cheer  were  the  order 

of  the  day ; 
The  pipe  of  peace  went  round,  and  the  sword 

was  laid  away. 

"Are    these   men    friends    or    enemies?"    I 

questioned  silently; 
I  recalled  the  odious  names  they  have  called 

each  other  by, — 
* '  Idipt, "     ' '  knave, "     and     ' '  sorehead  " — all 

these,  and  many  more, 
They  have  used  to  pelt  each  other — is  their 

rancor  spent  and  o'er? 

They  talked  of  their  position,  of  the  duty  of 
the  press ; 

How  opponents  should  be  treated — with  hon- 
est friendliness. 

A  fair  and  lovely  theory !  the  practice  seems 
to  be 

To  call  each  man  a  rascal,  who  don't  agree 
with  me. 

What  do  they  mean,  I  wonder,  by  the  "free- 
dom of  the  press? " 

Is  it  this, — that  each  is  free  to  vent  his  "  cuss- 
edness?"  [to  be 

Free  to  ban  and  blacken  whoever  may  chance 

On  the  other  side  of  the  fence? — O  glorious 
liberty ! 

But  here  they  were — these  warriors  who  have 

oft  each  other  flayed, — 
Talking  in  tones  fraternal  as  they  drank  their 

lemonade ; 
And  I  wondered  if  the  time,  so  long  foretold, 

had  come, — 
The  day  of  peace  and  brotherhood — the  great 

Millennium. 


THE  FlliST  BIRD.  81 

I  have  read  the  papers  since,  and  I  see  my 
hope  was  vain ; 

For  the  hatchet  that  was  buried,  they  have 
dug  it  up  again ; 

The  sword  has  left  its  scabbard,  the  spiked 
guns  roar  away, 

And  he  who  was  a  "  sorehead,"  is  a  "  sore- 
head "  to-day. 

Each  man  is  at  his  desk;  he  has  grasp  3d  the 

wires  again, 
And   is  pulling  for  his   party,  with   all   his 

might  and  main. 
Opponents   thrash    each   other,    who   shook 

hands  the  other  day ; 
And  I  question, — do  they  mean  one-half  of 

what  they  say? 


THE  FIRST  BIRD. 

The  south  wind  blows  with  a  hint  of  spring — 
A  prophecy — it  can  be  nothing  more ; 

But  there  sits  a  bird  with  wee  brown  wing, 
Up  in  the  hickory,  over  the  door. 

On  a  naked  twig  he  sits  and  sings ; 
And  the  March  sun  shines,  and  the  warm 
winds  blow, 
And  his  frail  perch  trembles  and  sways  and 
swings, 
Over  great  masses  of  melting  snow. 

Oh !  his  song  is  sweet !  and  almost  I  think 
That  the  spring  is  come;  and  a  conjured 
scene 

Of  the  planting  of  corn  and  the  bobolink, 
Dreamily  rises  my  thoughts  between. 

But  heavy  and  deep  lies  the  winter  drift ! — 
Ah,  little  bird,  you're  ahead  of  your  time ! 

The  wind  will  change  with  a  sudden  shift ; 
You  will  shiver  and  chill  in  our  northern 
clime. 


82  OUR  FRIENDSHIP. 

You  had  better  have  stayed  in  the  orange 
trees 
For  some  days  yet — for  where  will  you  go 
When  the  icy  rain-drops  fall  and  freeze? 
And  where  will  you  hide  from  the  sleet  and 
snow? 

Little  bird,  would  you  only  come  to  my  door, 

I  would  take  you  into  my  kitchen  warm- 
Where  strangers  a  welcome  have  found  be- 
fore— 
And  keep  you  safe  from  the  driving  storm. 

Will  you  come? — But  you  still  believe  in  the 
spring; 
You  slight  the  offer  I  make,  and  me. 
You  are  off !  with  your  song  and  your  glanc- 
ing wing, 
And  silent  and  bare  is  my  hickory  tree. 


OUE  FRIENDSHIP. 

They  say  true  friendship  changeth  not, 

But  grows  and  grows ; 
Through  chance,  and  time,  and  treacherous 

plot, 
Through  change  of  scene  and  change  of  lot, 

Still  changeless  shows. 

If  this  be  true,  sure  here  is  seen 

Some  great  mistake ! 
The  friend  of  years  no  friend  hath  been, 
Else  naught  on  earth  could  come  between, 

The  bond  to  break. 

Am  I,  then,  false?    I  meant  no  lie; 

Yet  nevermore 
With  friendship  on  my  lip,  can  I, 
As  oft  aforetime,  seek  thine  eye, 

Or  cross  thy  door ! 


DREAMS. 

Dost  marvel  why?    'Tis  quickly  told. 

Here  at  thy  feet 
I  fling  away  our  friendship  old, 
Because  henceforth  our  two  hearts  hold 

A  tie  more  sweet! 

I  love  thee !  therefore  can  we  be 

No  longer  friends. 
Thou  takest  what  I  offer  thee— 
Thy  whole  heart's  sweetness  givest  me. 

So  friendship  ends. 


DREAMS. 


When  the  sun  is  shining  o'er  us, 

And  our  duties  lie  before  us, 
We  lay  our  wishes  by  on  secret  shelves ; 

In  their  napkins,  wrapped  securely, 

We  enfold  them,  thinking  surely 
They  are  hidden  both  from  others  and  our- 
selves. 

But  when  Slumber  sweetly  holds  us, 
And  in  velvet  arms  enfolds  us, 
And  the  moonlight  through  the  curtain  faintly 
streams ; 
Then  from  out  their  hiding-places, 
Clad  in  soft,  bewitching  graces, 
Come  our  wishes  to  inspire  and  rule    our 
dreams. 

How  they  haunt  the  midnight  pillow ! 
How  the  pulse  swells,  like  a  billow, 
As  the  dreamer  clasps  the  thing  he  most  de- 
sires ! 
And  his  throbbing  heart  rejoices 
As  he  hears  enchanting  voices 
Singing,    keeping  rhythmic  time  to  golden 
lyres. 


84  A  MOBNING  CALL. 

Wants  he  riches?  power?  honor? 

Fancy  is  a  lavish  donor, 
All  he  craves  bestowing  on  his  longing  soul. 

Oh,  the  ripe,  delicious  sweetness ! 

Oh,  the  rare  and  rich  completeness, 
As  he  quaffs  with  thirsty  lips  the  brimming 
bowl ! 

But  alas !  the  sudden  waking, 

When  above  the  hill  tops  breaking, 
With  its  weary  burdens  bringing,  comes  the 
day! 

Then  the  dreamer  grasps  the  real, 

Puts  aside  his  sweet  ideal, 
Deftly  hides  his  dream  within  its  nook  away. 


A  MORNING  CALL. 

Come  in  and  welcome,  tiny  thing, 

With  snowy  breast  and  soft  brown  wing, 

And  beak  of  tawny  hue. 
But  why,  I  pray,  this  wild  alarm? 
I  will  not  let  you  come  to  harm ; 

I'm  fond  of  such  as  you. 

Stop,  little  bird !  you  foolish  thing ! 
Why  will  you  beat  your  tender  wing 

Against  the  cruel  pane? 
I  do  the  same  myself ;  I  fret 
Against  the  bounds  about  me  set, 

And  find  it  all  in  vain. 

I  cannot  make  you  understand. 
Wait — I  will  take  you  in  my  hand, 

And  put  you  through  the  door. 
You  precious,  panting  little  mite ! 
The  cat  would  eat  you  at  a  bite, 

And  lick  his  jaws  for  more. 

He  shall  not  have  you,  nor  will  I 
Keep  you  from  yonder  clear  blue  sky. 


DAY  BY  DAY.  85 

There !  soar  where'er  you  Mst. 
To  cage  a  bird  breaks  Nature's  laws ; 
And  then  I  am  and  always  was 

An  abolitionist. 

Go,  find  your  mate ;  she  waits  for  you 
Somewhere  in  yonder  fields  of  blue, 

Or  on  some  swaying  bough. 
Tell  her  you  got  into  a  scrape, 
But  made  a  fortunate  escape — 

And  please  just  tell  her  how. 

You  might  have  met  a  prisoner's  doom, 
When  you  came  blundering  to  my  room ; 

Yet  I  have  set  you  free. 
Then,  sometimes  fold  your  wee  brown  wing 
Upon  my  hickory  tree,  and  sing 

Your  sweetest  song  to  me. 


DAY  BY  DAY. 


Thou  askest  what  may  my  mission  be, 
And  what  great  work  I  am  bound  to  do ; 
Alas !    I  cannot  unfold  to  thee 
The  work  of  a  day  till  that  day  be  through. 

I  know  not  at  night  what  awaits  at  morn ; 
I  know  not  at  morn  what  the  noon  shall  bring ; 
Nor  know,  till  the  eve  its  fruit  has  borne, 
What  the  twilight  folds  in  its  dusky  wing. 

I  purpose  and  plan,  but  cannot  dispose ; 
The  work  I  would  do  slips  through  my  hands ; 
I  am  given  a  task  that  I  never  chose : 
And  my  strength  is  fettered  by  bars   and 
bands. 

I  purpose  and  plan,  yet  blindly  go, 
Doubtful  whither ;  to  reach  my  end 
I  sturdily  toil,  yet  well  I  know 
To  the  will  of  events  my  will  must  bend. 


86  DAY  BY  DAY. 

I  would  build  me  a  tower,  with  lordly  walls, 
On  a  lofty  rock  that  o'ertops  the  lands ; 
But,  ere  it  is  finished,  my  structure  falls, 
For  the  rock  has  crumbled  to  shifting  sands. 

I  have  woven  a  web  with  the  toil  of  years ; 

I  have  laid  it  by,  forgetting  the  moth: 

And  I  thread  my  needle  and  sharpen  my 

shears ; 
But  lo!  the  worms  have  eaten  the  cloth. 

Shall  I  then  do  naught;  shall  I  sit  in  sloth, 
Because  has  tumbled  my  lordly  tower? 
And  because  the  worms  have  eaten  my  cloth — 
Scorning  the  calls  of  the  present  hour? 

If,  .day  by  day,  while  keen  desire 
Pants  for  the  work  that  is  great  and  grand, 
Some  small,  sweet  task  by  the  household-fire 
Mutely  appeals  to  my  brain  and  hand, 

Shall  I  then  complain?    Shall  I  turn  away, 
Closing  my  heart  to  the  tender  call? 
And  leave  undone  the  work  of  to-day, 
Because  it  is  humble,  unseen,  and  small? 

Nay ;  for,  better  than  sounding  name, 
And  better  than  riches,  that  rot  and  rust, 
And  better  than  glistening  wreaths  of  fame, 
That  wither,  and  crumble,  and  fall  to  dust, 

Are  the  blessings  that  come  to  me,  one  by 

one, 
The  peaceful  joys  that  enter  my  gate, 
If  I  do  my  duty  from  sun  to  sun, 
Be  it  lowly  or  high,  be  it  small  or  great. 

The  sweet,  glad  smile  in  a  loved  one's  eye, 

The  tender  cadence  of  household-tones, 

Are  better  than  crowns  of    the  great    and 

high;— 
For  to  live  on  pride  is  to  feed  on  stones. 


TWO  FAREWELLS.  87 


TWO  FAEEWELLS. 

I  have  bidden  two  of  my  neighbors 

A  long  farewell  to-day. 
Both  were  going  a  journey, 

And  both  were  going  to  stay. 

One,  with  eyes  that  were  misty, 
Like  skies  all  heavy  with  rain, 

Said,  "In  the  years  that  are  coming, 
We  may  somewhere  meet  again." 

She  was  bound  for  Dakotah ; 

And,  watching  the  wagons  go — 
White-covered,  heavily  laden, 

Clogged  with  the  early  snow. 

I  thought  of  the  bleak,  cold  prairies, 

Of  the  toil,  for  many  a'  day, 
With  the  storms  of  wild  November 

Howling  along  the  way. 

The  other  lay  cold  and  silent ; 

Said  naught,  nor  clasped  my  hand ; 
And  yet  we  were  friends — ah,  speechless 

Men  go  to  the  Silent  Land ! 

Mute,  and  pale,  and  speechless, 

This  wild  October  day, 
He  passed  down  into  the  shadows — 

Into  the  shadows  gray. 

And  he  has  finished  his  journey; 

The  pain  and  the  toil  are  o'er ; 
Nobly  he  wrought  his  life-work, 

Bravely  his  burdens  bore. 

To-night  the  winds  are  raving ; 

The  snow  falls  over  his  head ; 
Yet  he  turns  not  on  his  pillow, 

Stirs  not  in  his  lowly  bed, 


3  HARVEST-HOME. 

So  gone  are  two  of  my  neighbors ; 

Empty  their  places  stand. 
One  is  gone  to  Dakotah, 

And  one  to  the  Silent  Land. 


HAE  VEST-HOME. 

Again  the  Harvest-Home.  Night  after  night, 
The  full,  round  moon  climbs  up  the  dusky 
East, 

Ere  yet  the  day  quite  yields  its  throne  to  night, 
Ere  yet  the  sunset-glow  has  wholly  ceased. 

Night  follows  night  in  glorious,  stately  march. 

The  same  round  moon,  the  same  far,  dusky 
stars, 
In  solemn  splendor,  from  the  vaulted  arch 

Shed  their  soft  light  in  pale  and  misty  bars. 

Do     you    remember   one    sweet    Summer's 
prime — 
Such  nights  as  these,  such  dim  and  dusky 
glow — 
When   first    our  two  lives  met  in  blended 
rhyme  ? 
We  both  were  young— and  it  was  long  ago. 

What  hope  was  ours,   as,  standing  hand  in 

hand, 

Amid  the  Summer-moon's  soft,  tender  light, 

We   wove    our   plans    together,    strand  by 

strand, 

In  fearless  faith?    How  is  it,  Love,  to-night? 

As  then,  the  whispering  winds  steal  through 
the  corn : 

As  then,  we  hear  the  owl's  weird  solemn  cry ; 
As  then,  the  tawny  fields,  but  newly  shorn, 

Wet  with  the  night-dews,  bare  and  silent  lie. 


HABVEST-HOME.  89 

As  then,  the  bark  of  dogs  sounds  faint  and 
far; 
As  then,   the  thick  grass  hides  an  insect 
throng ; 
As  then,  the  glowworm  shows  its  tiny  star ; 
As  then,  rings  sharp  and  clear  the  cricket's 
song. 

As  then,  the  solemn  moonlight,  shining  down, 

Blent  with  the  twilight's  last  departing  ray. 

Then  seems  but    now — and  yet  your  locks 

were  brown, 

And  now  I  see  them  thickly  strewn  with 

gray. 

Then  seems  but  now.     I  feel  the  same  dear 
arm 
That  then  I  leaned  upon,  about  me  thrown ; 
The  voice  that  swayed  me  with  its  subtle 
charm 
Still  keeps  for  me  the  old  caressing  tone. 

Then  seems  but  now— and  yet  your  steps  are 
slow; 
Your  brow  shows  prints  of  pain,  and  toil, 
and  care ; 
And  I  have  seen  my  youth's  last  roses  blow. 
I,  too,  am  growing  old — why  should  I  care  ? 

What  matters  it  ?    In  counting  off  our  life 
By  harvest-moons,  the  checkered,  toilsome 
years 
Show  in  their  record  more  of  peace  than  strife, 
More  joy  than  sorrow,  more  of  smiles  than 
tears. 

Time  flies  apace.  Spring-flowers,  and  Winter- 
rime, 

And  sweet  June  roses,  swiftly  go  and  come ; 
Yet  the  full  richness  of  our  youthful  prime 

Still  crowns  us  both  anew  at  Harvest-Home. 


90  THE  PITY  OF  IT. 


THE  PITY  OF  IT. 

It  seems  so  strange  to  watch  the  crowd 
That  gathers  on  some  festal  day, 

To  mark  the  lowly  and  the  proud, 
Aglow  with  mirth,  and  think  that  they 
Are  but  a  throng  of  masquers  gay. 

'Tis  true  that  some  show  signs  of  grief ; 

Yon  sad- eyed  widow  wears  her  weeds ; 
Yon  mother  mourns  her  fallen  leaf, 

And  tells  you  how  her  bosom  bleeds. 

Yon  soldier,  battered  in  the  wars, 
Moving  with  painful  step,  and  slow, 

Limps  proudly,  proudly  wears  his  scars ; — 
Such  hurts  as  these  all  men  may  know. 

But  deeper  sorrow,  keener  throes, 
Are  hidden  by  a  careless  smile, 

And  laughter  on  the  lip,  the  while 
The  heart  is  torn  and  no  one  knows. 

The  pity  of  this  earthly  life 
Is,  that  the  deepest  heartaches  lie 
Beyond  the  reach  of  sympathy ; 

The  sorest  wounds  are  got  in  strife 
Waged  in  the  dark,  where  none  may  see, 

Oft  hiding  still  the  rankling  knife 
That  tortures  with  slow  misery. 

I  see  my  neighbor  come  and  go 

With  airy  speech  and  smiling  lip ; 
I  call  him  gay — I  little  know 

What  unseen  hand,  with  deadly  grip 
Clutches  his  heart,  what  torture  slow 
Wears  out  his  life,  while  borne  alone, 
As  ceaseless  dropping  wears  a  stone. 

If  floods  destroy,  if  fires  consume, 
Full  hands  reach  out  in  charity ; 

Across  misfortune's  darkest  gloom 
Shine  kindly  rays  of  sympathy ; 


LITTLE  THINGS.  91 

If  a  friend  dies  a  tolling  bell 

May  to  the  world  the  story  tell. 
But  deeper  griefs  than  these  there  be — 
The  death's  head  in  the  closet  hid 

Is  ghastlier  than  the  still  white  face, 

Or  the  cold  hands,  in  waxen  grace 
Lying  beneath  the  coffin  lid. 

A  living  woe  from  mortal  eyes 
Is  curtained  close ;  the  direst  strife 

Is  in  the  breast — And  herein  lies 
The  pity  of  this  earthly  life. 


& 


LITTLE  THINGS. 


We  call  him  strong  who  stands  unmoved — 
Calm  as  some  tempest-beaten  rock — 
When  some  great  trouble  hurls  its  shock ; 

We  say  of  him,  His  strength  is  proved : 
But,  when  the  spent  storm  folds  its  wings, 
How  bears  he  then  Life's  little  things? 

About  his  brow  we  twine  our  wreath  ^ 
Who  seeks  the  battle's  thickest  smoke, 
Braves  flashing  gun  and  sabre-stroke, 

And  scoffs  at  danger,  laughs  at  death ; 
We  praise  him  till  the  whole  land  rings ; 
But — is  he  brave  in  little  things? 

We  call  him  great  who  does  some  deed 
That  echo  bears  from  shore  to  shore, — 
Does  that,  and  then  does  nothing  more : 

Yet  would  his  work  earn  richer  meed, 
When  brought  before  the  King  of  kings, 
Were  he  but  great  in  little  things. 

We  closely  guard  our  castle-gates 
When  great  temptations  loudly  knock, 
Draw  every  bolt,  clinch  every  lock, 

And  sternly  fold  our  bars  and  gates : 
Yet  some  small  door  wide  open  swings 
At  the  sly  touch  of  little  things. 


92  BECALMED. 

I  can  forgive — 'tis  worth  my  while — 
The  treacherous  blow,  the  cruel  thrust ; 
Can  bless  my  foe,  as  Christian  must, 

While  Patience  smiles  her  royal  smile : 
Yet  quick  resentment  fiercely  slings 
Its  shots  of  ire  at  little  things. 

And  I  can  tread  beneath  my  feet 
The  hills  of  Passion's  heaving  sea, 
When  wind-tossed  waves  roll  stormily : 

Yet  scarce  resist  the  siren  sweet 
That  at  my  heart's  door  softly  sings 
"  Forget,  forget  Life's  little  things." 

But  what  is  Life?    Drops  make  the  sea ; 
And  petty  cares  and  small  events, 
Small  causes  and  small  consequents, 

Make  up  the  sum  for  you  and  me : 
Then,  O  for  strength  to  meet  the  stings 
That  arm  the  points  of  little  things! 


BECALMED. 


Adrift  in  my  little  boat, 
Becalmed  on  the  cold  gray  sea — 

And  chill  mists  lazily  float 
All  over  my  boat  and  me. 

The  breezes  lie  dead  asleep— 
Not  a  breath  in  the  idle  sails ! 

And  I  wearily  watch  and  weep, 
And  listen  for  distant  gales. 

Shall  I  still  drop  useless  tears, 
And  sit  here  and  wait  and  wait, 

Till  my  head  grows  gray  with  years, 
For  the  wind  that  may  come  too  late 

To  be  idle  is  shame  to  the  strong ! 

I  will  lay  my  hand  to  the  oar ; — 
And  the  craft  that  has  waited  long, 

Shall  wait  for  the  wind  no  more ! 


\ 


OCTOBER  DAYS. 


OCTOBER  DAYS. 


Push  back   the  curtains  and  fling  wide  the 
door; 
Shut  not  away  the  light  npr  the  sweet  air, 
Let  the  checked  sunbeams!  play  upon   the 
floor, 
And  on  my  head    low-bowed,  and  on  my 
hair. 

Would  I  could  sing,  in  words  of  melody, 
The    hazy    sweetness    of   this    wondrous 
time ! 
Low  would  I  pitch  my  voice :  The  song  should 
be 
A  soft,  low  chant,  set  to  a  dreamy  rhyme. 

No   loud,   high   notes  for  tender  days  like 
these! 
No  trumpet  tones,  no  swelling  words  of 
pride, 
Beneath  these  skies,  so  like  dim  summer  seas, 
Where  hazy  ships  of  cloud  at  anchor  ride. 

At  peace  are  earth  and  sky,  while  softly  fall 
The  brown  leaves  at  my  feet.    A  holy  palm 

Rests  in  a  benediction  over  all. 
O  silent  peace !    O  days  of  silent  calm ! 

And  passion,  like  the  winds,  lies  hushed  and 
still; 
A  throng  of  gentle  thoughts,  sweet,  calm 
and  pure, 
Knock  at  my  door  and  lightly  cross  the  sill. 
Would  that  their  feet   might   stay,  their 
reign  endure ! 

But  storms  will  come.     The  haze  upon  the 
hills 
Will  yield  to  blinding  gusts  of  sleet  and 
snow; 
And,  for  this  peace  that  all  my  being  fills, 
The  tides  of  battle  shall  surge  to  and  fro. 


94  .        MAGIC  STONES. 

Life  is  a  struggle :  and  'tis  better  so. 
Who    treads  its   stormy  steeps,   its  stony 
ways, 
And  breasts  its  wintry  blasts,  must  battling 
go. 
And  yet — it  hath  its  Indian  summer-days. 


MAGIC  STONES. 


Three  oval  stones,  worn  by  the  lapping  wa- 
ters 
Of  wide  Lake  Michigan.      As  smooth  are 
they 
As  if  some  lapidary's  patient  fingers 
Had  wrought  their  polished  disks  of  mot- 
tled gray. 

Long  I  have  kept  them ;  and  I  well  remem- 
ber 
When,  where  I  picked  them  up.     A  sum- 
mer's day 
Drew  near  its  close ;  the  sunset  glory 
Flooded  the  land  and  on  the  water  lay. 

But  not  alone  the  sunset's  gold  and  crimson, 
The  sparkling  waves,  the  white  sails  mov- 
ing slow, 
These  stones  recall.    Dear  friends  were  there 
beside  me, 
With  faces  radiant  in  the  evening  glow. 

What  happiness  it  was  to  talk  and  listen, 
To    say    with    confidence   the    things   we 
thought ! 
To  look  straight  into  eyes  whose  open  shining 
Itself  was  speech,  frank,  full,   concealing 
naught ! 

The  city,  with  its  restless,  fevered  pulses, 
Was  near,  yet  not  in  hearing,  not  in  sight. 

No  smoke  of  furnaces  nor  roar  of  traffic, 
Marred  the  still  beauty  of  the  evening  light. 


RESCUE  FOR  THE  PERISHING.         05 

Alone,  we  few,  beside  the  blue-green  water, 
To  us,  for  one  brief  hour,  the  world  was 
not. 

Its  wild  ambitions,  and  its  throes  of  passion, 
Its  fierce  and  selfish  struggles  all  forgot. 

And  while  we   stood  and  talked,  the  glory 
faded, 
The    shores   grew  dimmer  in  the   failing 
light; 
The  shadows  deepened  and  the  lake  grew 
darker, 
The  white  sails  vanished  in  the  gathering 
night. 

'Twas  years  ago,  and  time  hath  wrought  its 
changes ; 
Yet  have  these  magic  stones  the  power  to 
wake 
A  throbbing  memory  of  friendly  voices, 
Heard   in  the  twilight,  by  the  darkening 
lake. 


RESCUE  FOR  THE  PERISHING. 

READ  BEFORE  A    SESSION    OF    THE    TEMPLE    OF 
HONOR  IN  JEFFERSON  COUNTY,    WIS. 

Who  hath  the  trembling  hand, 

And  eyes  that  are  rheumy  and  red? 
Who,  amid  darkness  that  knows  no  morn, 

Mourns  over  hopes  that  are  dead? 

And  who  goes  staggering  by 

With  weak  and  tottering  feet, 
With  rags  on  his  back,  and  cheeks  aflame, 
And  hot  lips  foul  with  words  of  shame — 

The  scoff  of  the  pitiless  street? 

And  who  sits,  sad  and  pale, 
Beside  her  desolate  hearth — 
A  wailing  babe  on  her  patient  knee, 
Sick  and  sad  from  its  birth? 
While  the  heavy  hours  drag  by, 


96         RESCUE  FOR  THE  PERISHING. 

Of  what  does  this  watcher  think? 
Why  harks  she  so,  as  steps  go  past? 
And  why,  when  one  step  comes  at  last, 

Does  she  start,  and  shiver,  and  shrink? 

As  one  comes  tottering  in, 

With  reeking  and  poisoned  breath, 
She  well  may  fear,  for  she  knows  the  work 

Of  the  fiery  cup  of  death. 

More  than  my  pen  can  paint, 

This  sorrowful  woman  knows 
Of  want,  of  woes  like  mountains  piled, 
Of  oaths,  and  curses,  and  ravings  wild, 

And  the  weight  of  heavy  blows. 

Reared  in  a  delicate  home, 

She  remembers  a  happy  time, 
When  the  days  were  leaves  of  a  pleasant 
book 

All  written  in  dainty  rhyme. 

She  remembers  peaceful  nights, 

That  were  blessed  with  radiant  dreams ; 
And  rosy  morns,  and  fleecy  skies, 
And  the  tender  light  in  a  mother's  eyes-— 

How  long  ago  it  seems ! 

She  remembers  one  day  of  joy, 

When  she  stood,  a  white-robed  bride, 
By  the  side  of  one  who  was  more  to  her 

Than  all  the  great  world's  pride. 

She  stands  beside  him  now, 

Pale  with  a  mortal  fear. 
Her  pinched,  wan  cheeks  grow  whiter  yet, 
Her  great  wild  eyes  are  fixed  and  set 

On  his  face  so  marred  and  blear. 

It  has  come— that  awful  scourge, 
Whose  terrors  none  can  speak — 
And  the  lips  that  cursed  as  he  crossed  the 
door, 
Now  utter  shriek  on  shriek. 
He  sees    all  fearful  things ! 


RESCUE  FOR  THE  PERISHING.         97 

A  serpent  crawls  at  his  feet ; 
The  dark  panes  glow  with  fierce  green  eyes, 
And  in  yon  dusky  corner  lies 

A  corpse  in  a  winding-sheet. 

He  feels  on  his  shrinking  cheek 

The  flapping  of  goblin  wings, 
And  over  his  flesh  the  slimy  touch 

Of  horrible  creeping  things. 

He  writhes  in  the  grip  of  fiends, 

That  drag  him  down  to  hell. 
Can  aught  redeem  from  a  hell  like  this? 
Could  an  angel's  hand,  an  angel's  kiss? 

Hark  to  the  tale  I  tell. 

There  came  to  that  dread  abode — 

As  come  to  many  another — 
Men  of  a  tried  and  faithful  band, 

Who  look  on  man  as  a  brother — 

Who  look  on  man  as  a  brother — 

However  low  he  may  sink ; 
Who  stretch  forth  pitying  hands  to  save 
The  fallen  one  from  his  self-dug  grave, 

Though  he  stands  at  the  very  brink. 

They  came  with  soothing  tones, 
With  fuel,  and  food,  and  care ; 
And  strong,  brave  words  of  cheerful  hope, 
For  the  drunkard's  dire  despair. 
They  bore  him  up  in  their  arms, 
They  plucked  him  out  of  the  pit— 
And  now,  in  a  home  of  calm  content. 
Where  cheerful  labor  and  rest  are  blent, 
Do  peace  and  plenty  sit. 

The  wife's  wan  cheeks  grow  red, 
And  her  smile  is  fair  to  see : 
And  a  rosy  boy,  with  golden  hair, 
Climbs  to  his  father's  knee. 

7 


98  BUBBLES. 

Brothers !  such  work  as  this 

Deserves  a  laurel  crown ! 
For  the  solemn  joy  such  deeds  must  bring, 
The  loftiest  genius,  the  proudest  king, 

Might  well  on  his  knees  go  down. 

Oh,  fathers  with  drunken  sons ! 

Oh,  sons  with  drunken  sires ! 
Would  that  the  bitter  tears  ye  shed 

Might  quench  these  hellish  fires ! 

Oh,  people,  grand  and  strong ! 

Arise  in  your  kingly  might. 
Put  from  your  midst  the  accursed  thing: — 
And  the  dove  of  peace,  with  brooding  wing, 

Shall  on  your  homes  alight. 


BUBBLES. 


I  saw  an  urchin  with  a  pipe  of  clay 

Held  to  his  rosy  lips ;  a  rippling  brook 
Kissed    his   bare    feet,   then,   singing,    sped 
away. 
His  cheek  was  dimpled,  mirth  was  in  his 
look. 

The  child  was  blowing  bubbles.    One  by  one 
The  tiny  globes  of  rainbow,  frail  and  fair, 

Sailed  upward,  glittered  in  the  morning  sun, 
Trembled  and  swung    upon    the  summer 
air; 

Then  one  by  one  I  saw  them  burst.    Some 
fell 
Upon  the  stream  that  gurgled  swiftly  past, 
Broke,   and  were  gone    forever.      Balanced 
well, 
Some  stayed  a  moment,  but  all  burst  at 
last. 


DISCONTENT.  99 

I  saw  them  vanish,  and  I  sadly  thought, 
With  tear-wet  eyelid  and  with  quivering 
lip, 
That  such  was  history — thus  frailly  wrought, 
Men's  lives  are  bubbles,  Fortune  blows  the 
pipe. 

A  drop,  a  breath— no  more— is   place   and 
power. 
The  crowd  that  cries  to-day,    "Long  live 
the  King!" 
To-morrow  spurns  its  creature  of  an  hour, 
And  lays  him  low— a  scorned  and  hated 
thing. 

I  see  how  men  go  up  and  men  go  down ; 

I  see  the  high  and  noble  sink  to  shame ; 
I  see  the  exile's  ban  succeed  the  crown ; 

I  see  vile  Slander  dog  the  steps  of  Fame. 

So  must  it  be;  the  brightest  bubbles  burst; 

To  grasp  them  is  to  clutch  at  empty  air. 
Is  naught,  then,  certain?  is  all  good  accurst? 

Is  this  life  all?    Proclaim  it,  ye  who  dare ! 

God's  Truth    abides.     We    turn    and    veer 
about : 
We  clasp  our  idols,  and  they  fall  to  dust ; 
Our  faith  is  weak — we  plunge   in    seas  of 
doubt — 
Yet  there  is  still  the  Rock;    and  God  is 
just. 


DISCONTENT. 


Herein  is  human  nature  most  perverse : 
We  spurn  the  gifts  that  lie  about  our  door, 

Tread  on  them    in   our    scorn,   and  madly 
nurse 
A  gnawing  hunger  that  still  cries  for  more. 


100  DISCONTENT. 

And  this  for  mortals  all  life's  blessing  mars, 
Turning  to  bitterness  its  offered  sweet. 

We  climb  up  dizzy  crags  to  grasp  the  stars, 
While  unplucked  roses  bloom  about  our 
feet. 

The  stars  are  out    of  reach;   the    slippery 
steeps 
Prove  treacherous  footholds,  and  we  trip 
and  fall. 
Crushed    are     the     roses;     disappointment 
weeps 
O'er  bleeding  bruises :  and  that  ends  it  all. 

We  stretch  out  empty  arms  with  longing 
sore, 
To  clasp  the  mocking  phantom  of  a  dream : 
We  pant  with  thirst  while  standing  on  a 
shore 
Kissed  by  the  ripples  of  a  living  stream. 

From  sweet,  pure  waters  do  we  turn  aside. 

Lured  by  false  fountains  in  the  desert  gray : 
We  chase  a  vision  o'er  expanses  wide. 

To  find  it  grow  more  distant,  day  by  day. 

Why  do  we  so?    Could  we  but  learn  to  take, 
With  thankful  hearts,  the  blessings  at  our 
hand. 
To  drink  near  springs,  nor  chase  the  phan- 
tom lake 
That  swiftly  vanishes  along  the  sand ! 

Suppose  we  gain    our    quest;    suppose    we 
taste — 

Aye,  even  drink  our  fill,  with  lips  afire — 
Repentant  leisure  treads  the  heels  of  haste : 

In  sad,  remorseful  tears  ends  fierce  desire. 

Life  is  too  short  to  waste  in  vain  pursuit 
Of  swift  delight  that  through  the  fingers 
slips, 
Or,  caught  and  held,  oft  proves  a  Dead  Sea 
fruit, 
That  turns  to  bitter  ashes  on  the  lips. 


ON  WHS  FARM.  101 


ON  THE  FARM. 

How  sweet  to  lean  on  Nature's  arm, 

And  jog  through  life  upon  the  farm! 

Merchants  and  brokers  spread  and  dash 

A  little  while,  then  go  to  smash ; 

But  we  can  keep  from  day  to  day, 

The  even  tenor  of  our  way. 

(There  go  those  horses !    Quick,  John !  catch 

'em! 
They'll  break  their  necks !    You  didn't  hitch 

'em!) 

How  clear  and  shrill  the  ploughboy's  song, 

As  merrily  he  jogs  along ! 

The  playful  breeze  about  him  whirls, 

And  tosses  wide  his  yellow  curls. 

His  hands  are  brown,  his  cheeks  are  red — 

An  ever  blooming  flower  bed. 

Unspoiled  by  crowds,  unvexed  by  care — 

(Goodness,  do  hear  the  urchin  swear !) 

How  soft  the  summer  showers  fall 
On  field  and  garden,  cheering  all ; 
How  bright,  in  woods,  the  diamond  sheen 
Of  rain-drops  strung  on  threads  of  green — 
Each  oak  a  King,  with  jewelled  crown. 
(The  wind  has  blown  the  haystack  down ! 
I  knew  'twould  hail,  it  got  so  warm. 
That  fence  is  flat — my !  what  a  storm !) 

How  soft  the  hazy  summer  night ! 
On  dewy  grass  the  moon's  pale  light 
Rests  dreamily.     It  falls  in  town, 
On  smoky  roofs  and  pavements  brown. 
How  tenderly,  when  night  is  gone, 
Breaks  o'er  the  fields  the  summer  dawn ! 
How  sweet  and  pure  the  scented  morn — 
(Get  up !    Old  Molly's  in  the  corn !) 

Far  from  the  city's  dust  and  broil, 
We  women  sing  at  household  toil, 


102  HO  UBS-  OF  PAIN. 

Nor  scorn*  t'0  work  With  Hardened  hands. 
We  laugh  at  fashion's  bars  and  bands. 
And  on  our  cheeks  wear  Nature's  rose — 
(That  calf  is  nibbling  at  my  clothes ! 
Off  she  goes  at  double  shuffle, 
Chewing  down  my  finest  ruffle !) 

We  workers,  in  our  loom  of  life, 
Far  from  the  city's  din  and  strife, 
Weave  many  a  soft,  poetic  rose, 
With  patient  hand,  through  warp  of  prose. 
We  love  our  labor  more  and  more, 
(John !   here !    these  pigs  are  at  the  door ! 
They've  burst  the  sty,  and  scaled  the  wall- 
There  goes  my  kettle,  soap  and  all !) 


HOUES  OF  PAIN. 

With  the  hot  blood  rushing,  swelling, 
Surging  through  my  throbbing  brain, 

Worn  and  weary,  past  the  telling, 
Nerveless  in  the  grasp  of  pain, 

Lean  I  on  my  thorny  pillow, 
Strewn  with  torments  o'er  and  o'er; 

Every  pulse  a  bursting  billow, 
Breaking  on  a  tortured  shore. 

But  there  come,  in  soft  caressing, 
Gentle  touches,  loving  hands ; 

As  the  soft  rain  drops  its  blessing 
On  the  scorched  and  thirsty  lands. 

Tender  voices,  softly  falling, 

Drop  their  pity  in  my  ear ; 
Sweet  as  tinkling  waters,  calling 

O'er  a  desert  parched  and  sere. 

Bless  your  music,  sweet  young  voices — 
Dear  young  hands,  you  soft  caress ! 

Pain  is  fierce,  but  love  rejoices 
In  its  conquering  tenderness. 


OVER  NIAGARA.  103 


OVER  NIAGARA. 


Hearken,  friends,  while  I  tell  you — 

I  will  be  as  brief  as  I  may- 
How,  while  the  drums  were  beating, 

And  the  great  guns  boomed  away, 
A  pair  of  blithe  young  lovers 

Kept  Independence  Day. 

I  was  passing  the  bridge  up  yonder, 
That  crosses  the  creek,  you  know, 

Near  where  it  enters  the  river, 
That  rolls  with  a  mighty  flow 

Toward  where  the  Cataract  thunders 
Only  three  miles  below. 

I  heard  sweet  peals  of  laughter 

Ring  over  the  river  wide, 
And  looked  where  a  boat  went  tossing 

Out  toward  the  rapid  tide, 
And  saw  that  the  prow  was  headed 

Toward  the  American  side. 

I  watched  the  boy  that  was  rowing, 
And  the  girl  that  sat  in  the  stern, 

And  I  saw  that  the  two  were  lovers — 
It  took  but  a  glance  to  learn — 

They  were  taking  their  trip  of  pleasure — 
Would  they  ever,  ever  return? 

I  saw  that  he  rowed  but  badly, 
And  my  heart  sank  at  the  sight ; 

It  is  only  the  skilful  oarsman, 
With  a  touch  both  firm  and  light, 

That  here  rows  across  the  river 
And  ever  returns  at  night. 

I  watched  the  frail  craft  tossing, 
In  a  tremor  of  dread  suspense; 

And  I  held  my  breath  in  the  terror 
That  swept  over  every  sense, 

As  I  saw  that  the  boat  was  heading 
Outside  of  the  "  river  fence." 


104  OVER  NIAGARA. 

They  have  passed  it  now !  in  the  rapids, 
Where  never  a  boat  crossed  o'er, 

They  are  swinging  nearer  and  nearer 
The  Cataract's  thundering  roar. 

They  will  never  come  back  to  the  Queen's 
land, 
Nor  reach  the  American  shore ! 

There  are  flecks  of  foam  on  the  water ; 

There  are  white-caps  on  the  tide ; 
And  swifter,  and  ever  swifter 

Down  to  their  doom  they  glide. 
Not  thus  in  the  joyful  morning 

Did  the  youth  think  to  wed  his  bride ! 

I  hear  the  girl  shriek  wildly, 
As  she  points  to  the  rocks  before ; 

I  see  the  boy's  mad  effort 
To  turn  the  boat  to  the  shore ; 

Then  I  watch  him  looking  for  something — 
Great  God !  he  has  dropped  an  oar ! 

My  old  knees  they  smote  together ; 

I  could  feel  my  cheeks  grow  pale, 
As  I  heard  above  all  the  roaring, 

The  sound  of  that  maiden's  wail ; 
And  I  clutched,  as  if  I  were  drowning, 

My  hands  to  the  wooden  rail. 

Still  I  gazed,  in  my  frozen  terror, 

For  I  could  not  turn  away ; 
And  I  saw  them  clinging  together, 

As  down  in  the  boat  they  lay ; 
And  the  sight  my  midnight  pillow 

Will  haunt  till  my  dying  day. 

I  saw  the  boat  swing  over 

The  crests  of  the  first  descent ; 
It  was  lost  to  sight  for  a  moment 

Where  the  hollowed  waters  bent ; 
The  next,  on  a  rock,  foam-covered, 

It  poised,  then  downward  went. 


THE  TOWER  OF  SILENCE.  105 

I  saw  no  more ;  but  others 

Standing  beside  the  Fall, 
Watching  the  beautiful  rainbow 

That  spans  the  eternal  wall, 
Beheld  a  few  black  fragments 

Of  a  boat — and  that  was  all. 


THE  TOWER  OF  SILENCE. 

High  on  the  cool,  green  summit  of  a  hill 
That   crowns   a   foot-spur  of   the   Western 

Ghauts, 
There   stands  a  lonely  tower.    A  grove  of 

palms 
Clusters  about  its  foot,  and  far  below 
The  warm   waves  lap  the   gorgeous  tropic 

shore 
Of  rich  Bombay.    Strong,  close-clamped  iron 

bars, 
Netted  and  intersected,  crown  its  top, 
And  deep  and  dark  beneath  there  sleeps  a 

well. 

This  strange,  weird  thing — this  high  and  si- 
lent tower, 
That  looks  down  on  the  city  and  the  sea — 
Is  not  a  temple,  nor  a  monument, 
Nor  yet  is  it  a  seat  where  telescopes 
Are  pointed  skyward.     'Tis  a  common  tomb ! 

Here,  while  the  fetid  flames  of  Hindoo  pyres 
Blaze  on  the  plains  below,  and  while  the  sea 
Utters  its  solemn  dirges  by  the  shore, 
The  Parsees  bring  their  dead.     No  graves  are 

dug; 
No  cool,  fresh  turf,  in  its  soft  tenderness, 
About  the  sleeper  flings  its  garments  green. 
Here,  high  in  air,  beneath  the  solemn  stars, 
With  faces  smiling  ghastly  to  the  moon — 


106  THE  TOWER  OF  SILENCE. 

Now  bathed  in  night-dews,  now  in  noontide 

heats- 
Lie  in  grim  state  the  devotees  of  fire. 
Glowing  upon  the  reeking  forms,  the  sun 
Shines  fiercely  down — the  god,  before  whose 

shrine 
In  life  they  bowed,  in  death  are  offered  up. 

But  hungry  ghouls  swoop  down  upon  the 

dead,  [share. 

And,   fiercely   screaming,    claim   a   ghastly 
Vultures  and  eagles,  every  bird  of  prey 
That  haunts  the  crags  of  the  wild  Ghautian 

hills, 
Here  feed  and  fatten  on  the  dreadful  feast. 
And  when  the  sun,  the  dews  and  mountain 

winds, 
Have  ended  the  dread  work  the  birds  began, 
When  the  slow- working  fingers  of  decay 
Have  crumbled  up  the  bleached  and  naked 

bones, 
There  is  the  well  below ;  and,  piece  by  piece, 
They  drop  into  its  bosom,  dark  and  deep ; 
This  is  the  secret  of  the  Silent  Tower : — 

Ajalee  was  a  Parsee  bride,  beloved 
And  beautiful.    Her  husband  clung  to  her 
With  passionate  devotion — yet  she  died. 
So  had  he  loved  her,  that  the  awful  thought 
Of  giving  up  the  form  his  arms  had  clasped 
To  the  fierce  talons  of  the  screaming  birds 
Seemed  horrible  to  him.     So,  when  he  laid 
His  lovely  sleeper  on  the  Silent  Tower 
With  a  last  kiss,  love  formed  its  skilful  plan. 
He  built  about  her  a  close-netted  screen, 
At  which  the  hungry  claws  might  tear  in 

vain ; 
Then  left  her  to  the  moon  and  midnight  stars ; 
To  the  soft  washings  of  the  tropic  rain ; 
The  mountain  winds,  and  the  sweet,  sacred 

sun. 


LAURA.  10? 


LAURA. 

A  village  street,  a  cottage-home, 

A  Summer-night,  a  starry  sky, 
A  moonlit  porch  where  woodbine  clomb, 

A  sound  of  late  feet  hurrying  by. 

Two  lovers,  underneath  the  vines, 

With  warm  hands  clasped,  looked  out  on 
life- 
A  glowing  scene,  all  sunny  lines — 

No  tears,  no  clouds,  no  stormy  strife. 

A  sweet  perspective  stretched  afar, 
With  rippling  streams  and  vales  of  green, 

And  Love  the  steady  guiding-star ; 
Could  aught,  could  aught  be  thrust  between? 

How  fair  they  were, — cheek  pressed  to  cheek, 
Gold  locks  and  brown  in  mingled  strands, — 

A  fairer  picture  one  might  seek 
In  vain  through  all  Earth's  sunny  lands. 

The  Summer  waned ;  the  nights  grew  chill ; 

With  stealthy  fingers  Autumn  came, 
And  clad  the  copse  and  wooded  hill 

In  gorgeous  garments,  splashed  with  flame. 

At  eve,  returning  homeward  late, 

Just  as  the  frosty  twilight  fell, 
I  found  young  Laura  at  the  gate, 

Counting  the  tolling  of  the  bell. 

The  last  stroke  fell.    Against  her  heart 
She  pressed  her  hand.   "  'Tis  he ! "  she  said ; 

No  other  sign  of  present  smart. 
Would  she  had  moaned,  or  wept,  or  prayed ! 

4t  ^r  $       (     $  4  $  4l  4> 

A  grave  upon  a  lone  hill-side, 

Where  Autumn  leaves  lay  sere  and  dead. 
Here  oft,  at  the  cold  even-tide, 

Came  silent  Laura,  bride  unwed. 


108  NOVEMBER  BAIN. 

One  morn  they  found  her,  still  and  cold, 
With  white  lips  pressed  against  the  stone, 

While  in  her  mantle's  crease  and  fold, 
And  on  her  hair,  the  hoar-frost  shone. 

United.    Bound  their  lowly  bed 
The  fierce  winds  howl  in  wild  delight. 

Not  thus,  not  thus  they  thought  to  wed ; 
Not  so  they  planned,  that  Summer-night. 


NOVEMBER  BAIN. 

November  rain !    November  rain ! 
Fitfully  beating  the  window-pane ; 
Creeping  in  pools  across  the  street ; 
Clinging  in  slush  to  dainty  feet ; 
Shrouding  in  black  the  sun  at  noon ; 
Wrapping  a  pall  about  the  moon. 

Out  in  the  darkness,  sobbing,  sighing, 
Yonder,  where  the  dead  are  lying. 
Over  mounds  with  headstones  gray, 
And  new  ones  made  but  yesterday — 
Weeps  the  rain  above  the  mould. 
Weeps  the  night-rain,  sad  and  cold. 

The  low  wind  wails — a  voice  of  pain, 
Fit  to  chime  with  the  weeping  rain. 
Dirge-like,  solemn,  it  sinks  and  swells, 
Till  I  start  and  listen  for  tolling  bells, 
And  let  them  toll— the  summer  fled, 
Wild  winds  and  rain  bewail  the  dead. 

And  yet  not  dead.     A  prophesy 

Over  wintry  wastes  comes  down  to  me, 

Strong,  exultant,  floating  down 

Over  frozen  fields  and  forests  brown, 

Clear  and  sweet  it  peals  and  swells, 

Like  New  Year  chimes  from  midnight  bells. 

It  tells  of  a  heart  with  life  aglow, 
Throbbing  under  the  shrouding  snow , 


TO  MABY.  109 

Beating,  beating  with  pulses  warm, 
While  roars  above  it  the  gusty  storm. 
Asleep— not  dead — your  grief  is  vain, 
Wild,  wailing  winds,  November  rain. 


TO  MARY. 


My  heart  is  back  in  the  past,  to-night, 

As  I  sit  in  the  twilight  dim  and  pale ; 
The  wide,  brown  prairie  is  vanished  quite, 
And  another  land  steals  on  my  sight, 
With  wooded  hill-top  and  sheltered  vale. 

Down  in  a  hollow  a  village  lies, 

With   its   peaceful    dwellings   white   and 
brown ; 
And  I  see,  as  I  scan  it  with  loving  eyes- 
Save  here  and  there  some  slight  surprise — 

But  little  change  in  the  dear  old  town. 

Yet  some  dear  faces  I  see  not  there- 
Faces  of  friends  that  I  used  to  know — 

Some  that  were  dark  and  some  that  were  fair. 

I  miss  them  sore,  and  I  question  where 
Are  these  that  I  loved,  long,  long  ago. 

Up  on  a  hill-side,  near  the  town, 

In  a  silent  city,  with  portals  low, 
Under  creeping  grasses,  now  sere  and  brown, 
Under   soft,   gray    mosses,   that   long    have 
grown, — 
Here  lie  some  that  I  used  to  know. 

And  you — O  friend  whom  I  loved  so  well, 
Whom  still  I  have  loved,  through  all  these 
years ! 
Your  heart  has  bled,  while  a  sorrowful  knell 
Slowly  throbbed  from  the  old  church-bell, 
You  have  shed  in  your  loneliness  bitter 
tears. 


110  MY  MOTHER'S  WHEEL. 

And  how  fare  you  now?  is  life  still  sweet? 

When  the  sun  set  did  the  stars  arise? 
Are  the  paths  made  smooth  for  your  willing 

feet? 
Are  you  strong  the  allotted  task  to  meet? 
Has  the  smile  returned  to  your  lips  and 
eyes? 

Would  I  could  see  you,  and  clasp  your  hand, 

And  look  in  your  face  as  I  used  to  do ! 
But  swollen  rivers,  mighty  and  grand, 
And  many  and  many  a  league  of  land, 
Between  us  lie,  while  I  question  you. 


MY  MOTHER'S  WHEEL. 

Broken,   dismantled!    would    that  it    were 
mine; 
I  would  not  keep  it  in  that  dusty  nook, 
Where  tangled  cobwebs  cross  and  interwine, 
And   old,   grim  spiders  from  their  corners 
look. 

From  distaff,  band,   and  polished  rim,  are 
hung 
The  dusty  meshes.     Black  the  spindle  is, 
Crooked,  and  rusty — a  dead,  silent  tongue, 
That  once  made  whirring  music — there  it 
lies. 

Ah,  dear  to  me  is  this  forsaken  thing ! 

I  gaze  upon  it,  and  my  eyes  grow  dim ; 
For  I  can  see  my  mother,  hear  her  sing, 

As  winds  the  shining  thread,  and  whirls  the 
rim. 

So   sweet   she  sang— her   youngest   on    her 
knee — 
Now   a   low   warble,  now  some  grand  old 
hymn, 
Sublime,  exultant,  full  of  victory, 
Triumphant  as  the  songs  of  seraphim. 


GOD  KNOWS.  Ill 

Sweet  toiler !    through  her  life  of  crowded 
care, 
While  grief  came  oft,  and  pain,  and  weari- 
ness, 
Still  swelled  the  anthem,  still  was  breathed 
the  prayer, 
Till  Death  came  clasping  with  its  cold  ca- 
ress. 

She  sings  no  more ;  beside  the  chimney  wide 
No  more  she  spins.     Years  come  and  go ; 

Above  her  grave  upon  the  lone  hill-side, 
The  snow-drifts  lie,  the  summer  grasses 
grow. 


GOD  KNOWS. 


God  only  knows  what  fate  the  coming  mor- 
row 
Holds  in  its  close  shut  hand— 
What  wave   of  joy,  what  whelming  tide  of 
sorrow, 
May  flood  my  heart's  dry  land. 

But  whether  laughter,  with  its  bounding  bil- 
low, 

Eolls  up  in  joyous  swell, 
Or  sorrow  darkly  flows  beneath  the  willow, 

I  still  will  say,  'tis  well. 

And  I  will  strew  my  seed  upon  the  waters, — 

The  sweet  soil  lies  below, — 
Whether  with  smiles  or  tears  it  little  mat- 
ters, 

So  it  may  spring  and  grow. 

I  know  my  hand  may  never  reap  its  sowing ; 

And  yet  some  other  may. 
And  I  may  never  even  see  it  growing — 

So  short  my  little  day ! 


112  FOURSCOBE. 

Still  must  I  sow.    Though  I  may  go  forth 
weeping, 
I  cannot,  dare  not  stay. 
God  grant  a  harvest !  though  I  may  be  sleep- 
ing 
Under  the  shadows  gray. 

I  know  not  but  the  ruthless  frosts  may  wither, 

The  worms  may  eat  my  rose ; 
There  may  not  be  one  flower  or  sheaf  to 
gather. 

Blindly  I  wait— God  knows. 


FOURSCORE. 


Sire  with  the  silver  hair, 
Shrunken  whose  features  are, 

Why  dost  thou  weep? 
Sad  art  thou,  weary  one, 
Nearing  the  set  of  sun, 
That  thy  work  nobly  done, 

Ends  with  a  sleep! 

Cheer  thee ;  thy  hands  are  worn, 
Bleeding  thy  feet  and  torn ; — 

Wouldst  thou  not  rest? 
On  yonder  Silent  Shore 
Soundeth  no  battle-roar ; 
There  shall  fierce  storms  no  more 

Beat  on  thy  breast. 

Struggle  and  toil  and  care, 
Sure  thou  hast  borne  thy  share ; 

Strength  is  but  lent. 
Young  limbs  are  strong  and  free, 
Young  shoulders  take  from  thee 
Loads  that  weigh  heavily : — 

Be  thou  content. 

Under  cool  grasses  sweet, 
Creeping  at  head  and  feet, 


TO  THE  MEMOB  Y  OF  A  FRIEND.      113 

Thus  shalt  thou  sleep. 

Under  the  autumn  glow, 

Under  the  winter  snow, 

Never  a  pang  to  know- 
Why  dost  thou  weep? 

After  the  peaceful  night 
Cometh  the  fadeless  light — 

(Hope  of  the  just). 
After  the  sword  and  shield, 
Palms  shall  the  victor  wield. 
Count  it,  then,  gain  to  yield 

Dust  unto  dust. 


TO  THE  MEMOEY  OF  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 

Sing  a  song  with  sorrow  laden, 

Sing  a  requiem  sad  and  slow, 
For  the  pure  and  gentle  maiden 

Lying  with  her  head  so  low. 
Loving  was  she,  sweet  and  mild, 

Half  a  woman,  half  a  child. 

Hands  so  helpful,  past  the  telling. 

Ah,  how  soon  your  work  is  done ! 
Feet  so  light,  so  fleet,  so  willing, 

Ah,  how  soon  your  race  is  run ! 
Bright  her  morning  rose,  and  yet 

Ere  its  prime  her  sun  is  set. 

In  the  great  world's  swelling  surges — 
Ceaseless  strife  of  loss  and  gain — 

Drowned  are  sorrow's  mournful  dirges, 
Sobs  of  anguish,  cries  of  pain. 

Why  for  her  such  tears  should  flow, 
Only  we  who  loved  her  know. 

Keen  the  wind  that  sweeps  the  prairie ; 

Keener  yet  the  bitter  breath 
Blown  from  off  the  borders  dreary 

Of  the  silent  realm  of  Death. 

8 


114     A  HO  USE-KEEPER  S  Q  UESTIONS. 

And  we  shiver — shrink  with  dread, 
As  we  cover  up  our  dead. 

Hard  is  parting — hard  to  sever 
Ties  that  bleed  at  every  strand ; 

And  the  gap  shall  close,  ah,  never, 
In  that  broken  household  band. 

Yet,  while  we  perforce  must  weep, 
Sleep,  O  maiden !  sweetly  sleep. 

O'er  thee  snows,  descending  lightly, 
Softly  fold  their  ermine  screen ; 

Choicest  flowers  shall  blossom  brightly ; 
Grasses  wave  their  banners  green, 

Summer  breezes,  stealing  nigh, 
These  shall  breathe  thy  lullaby. 

Tender  is  our  common  mother, 
Shielding  from  the  storm  and  strife, 

While  Hope  whispers  of  another, 
And  a  brighter,  better  life. 

Even  amid  our  blinding  tears, 
Faith  serene  consoles  and  cheers. 


A  HOUSE-KEEPER'S  QUESTIONS. 

While  autumn  tints  fleck  yonder  wood, 

And  lazy  winds  are  sleeping, 
I  feel  a  speculative  mood 

Come  slowly  o'er  me  creeping. 
A  strong  desire  within  me  stirs, 

To  see  some  questions  settled, 
On  which  the  great  philosophers 

Have  long  and  fiercely  battled. 
Calm  reason  now  shall  have  its  say, — 

(Dear  me ;  my  bread  is  burning ; 
And  I  am  wanted  right  away, 

To  see  about  that  churning.) 

I  sit  me  down  again  to  think, 

Commencing  at  creation. 
I  fain  would  follow,  kink  by  kink, 

The  long  stretch  of  gradation. 


A  HOUSE-KEEPER'S  QUESTIONS.     115 

But  that's  the  trouble ! — where  to  find 

The  first  stitch  of  beginning. 
The  tangled  thread  who  can  unwind 

To  where  commenced  the  spinning? 
What  laid  that  first  primordial  egg^ 

From  whence  came  life  unending? 
(Do,  some  one,  answer  this,  I  beg, 

While  I — do  up  my  mending.) 

Philosophy,  that  swayed  and  bent, 

Through  many  a  revolution, 
Now,  calmy  settled,  spreads  its  tent, 

And  rests  at  Evolution. 
But  Doubt  stands  gravely  at  the  door, 

And  puts  its  puzzling  queries. 
This  question  asks  (and  many  more) : 

What  did  commence  the  series? 
Did  something  out  of  nothing  grow? — 

(That  soup  is  boiling  over ! 
On  soup  depends  the  peace  of  home — 

I'll  just  take  off  the  cover.) 

Things  are ;  and  on  this  world,  we  know, 

Dwells  quite  a  population ; 
But  how  came  mice  and  men  to  grow — 

I  give  up  that  equation. 
Some  other  problems  stagger  me. 

Yon  graceless  scamp  is  growing 
To  just  what  he  was  born  to  be ; 

His  father  set  him  going ; 
How  far  is  he  to  blame  if  Fate 

Has  botched  his  constitution? — 
(There  comes  a  beggar  at  the  gate, 

And  wants  my  contribution.) 

Still  other  things  I  want  to  know : 

Why  evil  tongues  are  longest, 
Why  deeds  of  darkness  prosper  so ; 

Why  wicked  men  are  strongest, 
xlnd  why  must  life,  e'en  with  the  best, 

Be  but  a  constant  battle 
With  secret  foes  that  never  rest 

Until  the  last  death  rattle? 


116  BEYOND  THE  BIVEB. 

Why  are  the  good  so  sore  beset? 

Why  is  man  born  a  sinner? 
(But  there's  a  nearer  question  yet : 

What  I  shall  get  for  dinner?) 


BEYOND  THE  RIVER. 

The  time  must  come,  I  know,  when  we  shall 
part — 

All  ties  must  sever ; 
This  golden  zone,  enclasping  heart  to  heart, 

Must  snap  and  shiver. 
But  doth  yon  deep,  dark  stream,  part  ever- 
more? 
Or  shall  we  meet  and  greet  on  that  far  shore, 
Beyond  the  river? 

If  we  shall  meet — oh!   would  that  I  knew 
how! 

In  saintly  blessing? 
Or  shall  we  stand  as  we  are  standing  now — 

Mutely  caressing? 
Is  yonder  life  but  this  grown  rich  and  grand  ? 
Or  is  humanity  left  on  the  strand — 

Dropped  in  undressing? 

Oh  would  I  knew !    The  misty  clouds  that  lie 

Those  waters  over 
Still  darkly  droop,  still  mock  my  straining 
eye, 

Still  thickly  hover. 
I  call  and  question.     Silence  hath  no  tone. 
In  vain  I  ask  how  I  shall  meet  mine  own — 

As  friend  or  lover. 

Love  is  so  precious,  life  so  frail  and  fleet ! 

Hearts  bleed  and  quiver ; 
Tears  wet  the  prints  of  dear  departing  feet, 

Gone  hence  forever. 
Parting  is  bitter.    If  I  could  but  know 
That  thou  wilt  be  to  me  the  same  as  now, 

Beyond  the  river ! 


THE  SOB  ROUSE  ON  THE  PRAIltlE.  Ill 

Is  love  eternal?    Still  yon  sullen  cloud 

Answers  me  never. 
In  vain  I  plead ;  it  folds  its  sable  shroud, 

Silent  forever. 
But  I  shall  know.      Tis  useless  to  contend 
With  shadows;  yet  all  doubt  shall  have  an 
end 

Beyond  the  river. 


THE  SOD  HOUSE  ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 

A  low  sod  house,  a  broad  green  prairie, 
And  stately  ranks  of  bannered  corn ; — 

'Twas  there  I  took  my  dark-eyed  Mary, 
And  there  our  darling  boy  was  born. 

The  walls  were  low,  the  place  was  homely, 
But  Mary  sang  from  morn  till  night. 

The  place  beneath  her  touch  grew  comely ; 
Her  cheerful  presence  made  it  bright. 

Oh,  life  was  sweet  beyond  all  measure ! 

No  hour  was  dull,  no  day  was  long; 
Each  task  was  easy,  toil  was  pleasure, 

For  love  and  hope  were  fresh  and  strong. 

How  oft  we  sat  at  eve,  foretelling 
The  glories  of  that  wide,  new  land ! 

And  gayly  planned  our  future  dwelling — 
For  low  sod  house,  a  mansion  grand. 

Alas !  we  little  knew  how  fleeting 
The  joy  that  falls  to  human  lot. 

While  unseen  hands  were  dirges  beating, 
We  smiled  secure  and  heard  them  not. 

One  day  Death  came  and  took  my  Mary ; 

Another,  and  the  baby  died. 
And  near  the  sod  house  on  the  prairie 
s    I  laid  my  darlings  side  by  side. 


118  DIED  OF  WANT. 

I  could  not  stay.  My  heart  was  weary, 
And  life  a  load  too  hard  to  bear. 

That  low  sod  house  was  dreary,  dreary, 
For  love  and  hope  lay  buried  there. 


DIED  OF  WANT. 


Tread  lightly  on  the  creaking  floors ; 

Speak  softly — so ; 
With  careful  fingers  ope  and  shut  the  doors ; 
Calk  up  that  crack,  through  which  the  night 
rain  pours ; 

These  rafters  low 
Bend  o'er  a  traveller  to  unseen  shores, 

Where  all  must  go. 

A  scanty  bed,  a  drear,  unfurnished  room ; 

Dire  noxious  air, 
Where   pent-up   Fever  breathes  its  hot  si- 
moom, 
And  Poverty  has  plied  its  brush  and  broom 

Till  all  is  bare ; 
A   pale,  pinched    face   amid    the   midnight 
gloom, 

And  damp,  white  hair. 

'Tis  the  last  chapter  of  a  story  old. 

One  period  more, 
To  finish  all,  and  the  sad  tale  is  told. 
Too  late  comes  Charity,  with  generous  gold 

And  pity  sore ; 
Too   long   since    Famine   and   Disease   and 
Cold 

Entered  the  door. 

A  glimmer  of  gray  dawn  through  sleet  and 
rain, 

That  beat  and  beat 
With  icy  hands  upon  the  dingy  pane. 


AT  THE  FALLS.  119 

Within,  a  solemn  hush.      Fold  smooth  and 
plain 

The  winding  sheet. 
But  see !  the  poor  lips  wear  a  smile  again, 

Serene  and  sweet. 

Softly,  good  driver !  scour  not  quite  so  fast 

The  stony  pave. 
You  know  not  how  your  final  lot  is  cast ; 
Some  dire  disaster,  some  unlooked-for  blast 

Or  whelming  wave, 
May  land  you,  like  this  poor  old    man,  at 
last, 

In  pauper's  grave. 

Eeplace  the  sod.    He  sleeps  on  pillow  low, 

Like  other  dead. 
His  deep  and  pulseless  rest  no  dreams  shall 

know — 
No  shivering  pangs,  though  freezing  winds 
may  blow 

Across  his  bed. 
But,  softly  fall,  O  rain,  and  winter  snow, 
Above  his  head. 


AT  THE  FALLS. 


In  this  deep  solitude,  amid  the  roar 
Of  falling  waters,  and  soft  folds  of  spray, 

I  sit  upon  the  green  and  sedgy  shore — 
Sit  silent,  while  the  river  rolls  away. 

What  heed  I  here  the  hollow  masquerade 
That  men  call  life?    It  surely  heeds  not  me ; 

I  am  not  missed  from  the  gay  cavalcade — 
None  whisper,  "  This  was  her  place,  where 
is  she?" 

Little  I  reck !  the  page  upon  my  knee 
Talks  honestly,  and  yon  white  waterfall 

Pours  a  deep  voice  of  truth  unceasingly, 
While  the  gay  world  is  but  a  masquers'  ball. 


1 20  MY  HICKOR  Y-THEE. 


MY  HICKORY  TREE. 

Towering  close  at  my  cottage-door, 
Tall  and  royal,  and  grand  to  see, 

With  broad  arms  reaching  the  greensward 
o'er — 
O,  a  mighty  King  is  my  hickory-tree ! 

Changing  its  guise  with  the  changing  scene, 
As  the  wheels   of  the   year  are  onward 
rolled ; 

Clad  all  the  Summer  in  deepest  green, 
Now  resplendent  in  robes  of  gold. 

Here  gather  the  earliest  birds  of  Spring, 
When  the  Earth  awakes  from  its  frozen 
rest — 

The  tiny  bluebird  with  sapphire  wing, 
The  robin  sweet  with  its  glowing  breast. 

When  vines  are  green  at  the  window-frame, 
The  brown-thrush  sings,  and  the  dove  coos 
low, 

And  the  oriole  comes  like  a  flash  of  flame, 
And  hangs  its  nest  from  the  outmost  bough. 

On  the  velvet  grass,  in  the  grateful  shade, 
The  workmen  lie  as  they  rest  at  noon, 

Cheered  by  the  bird-songs  overhead, 
Lulled  by  the  honey-bee's  drowsy  tune. 

And  here,  with  friends,  on  summer-eves, 
We  sit  in  the  sunset's  mellow  glow — 

Sit  till  the  night- winds  toss  the  leaves, 
And  moonbeams  sift  to  the  sward  below. 

O  happy  scenes !    But  now  no  more 
We  seek  the  shade ;  the  wind  blows  cold ; 

The  frost  comes  creeping  about  the  door ; 
The  dead  flowers  rot  on  the  sodden  mould. 


DOWN  STREAM.  121 

Splendid  yet  is  my  hickory -tree, 

As  the  gorgeous  leaves  come  fluttering  down 
Like  flakes  of  gold ;  but  I  soon  shall  see 

Only  sightless  heaps,  all  sere  and  brown. 

Shook  by  the  winds  that  go  hurrying  by, 
Down  to  the  turf  the  ripe  nuts  fall ; 

And  the  boughs  shall  soon  stretch  toward 
the  sky, 
Stripped  of  their  nuts  and  leaves  and  all. 

When  deep  drifts  lie  on  the  frozen  farms, 
The  naked  giant,  in  scornful  glee, 

Shall  toss  in  the  storm  his  strong,  bare  arms — 
O,  a  mighty  King  is  my  hickory-tree ! 


DOWN  STREAM. 

I  see  a  boat  drift  lightly  by, 

The  stream  is  wide,  the  current  slow ; 

No  ripples  break  the  sunbeam's  glow ; 
Yet  well  I  know  that,  ceaselessly, 

The  great  fall  thunders  down  below. 

I  see  the  boatman  idly  lean, 
With  listless  hand  upon  his  oar, 
Unheeding  that  the  sunny  shore, 

With  safe,  still  coves  and  banks  of  green, 
Recedes  behind  him  more  and  more. 

The  sunlight  gilds  the  golden  hair 
That  clusters  round  his  stately  head ; 
A  lurid  flush,  youth's  rose  instead, 

Dyes  rounded  cheek  and  forehead  fair, 
Caught  from  the  wine  cup's  ruby -red. 

I  watch  him,  and  I  hold  my  breath ! 

He  seems  like  one  wrapped  in  a  dream ; 

While  swifter  rolls  the  narrowed  stream, 
And,  bending  o'er  yon  gulf  of  death, 

I  see  the  baleful  iris  gleam. 


122  HIGH  AND  LOW. 

Why  floats  he  so,  like  one  asleep, 
While  nearer  sounds  that  awful  roar? 
Awake,  O  friend !  take  up  thine  oar, 

And  stem  the  rapid's  fatal  sweep, 
Turn  hither,  hither,  I  implore. 

I  stretch  my  arms  and  loudly  cry ; 

I  call  until  the  welkin  rings, 

At  last  he  hears — the  frail  boat  springs, 
Trembles  a  moment  doubtfully, 

Then  slowly,  surely  landward  swings. 

Saved,  saved  at  last !  Adrip  with  spray, 
I  see  him  stand  upon  the  shore ; 
And  then  my  senses  swim ;  the  roar 

Sounds  like  a  murmur  far  away : — 
Would  I  might  hear  it  never  more ! 


HIGH  AND  LOW. 

Down  in  the  valley,  a  peaceful  scene — 
Streamlets  winding  through  meadows  green, 
Kippling,  smiling,  their  banks  between. 

Up  on  the  heights,  the  torrents  flash, 
Eush  and  tumble,  and  roar  and  dash, 
Seaming  the  soil  with  many  a  gash. 

Down  in  the  valley,  the  summer  rain 
Gently  falls  on  the  growing  grain, 
Softly  taps  at  the  window-pane. 

Up  on  the  heights,  the  tempests  beat, 

Hurling  volleys  of  pelting  sleet, 

When  winds  and  clouds  like  armies  meet. 

Down  in  the  valley,  through  growing  corn, 
The  warm  wind  steals,  and  the  breeze  of  morn 
Kisses  the  buds,  and  the  flowers  are  born. 

Up  on  the  heights,  the  wind  blows  chill, 
Smiting  the  heart  with  its  icy  thrill, 
Shrieking  at  midnight  sharp  and  shrill. 


VIEW  OF  LAKE  MICHIGAN.  123 

Down  in  the  valley,  a  level  street, 
Shaded  by  trees  whose  branches  meet, 
Trodden  lightly  by  tripping  feet. 

Up  to  the  heights,  the  way  is  steep, 
The  stones  are  sharp,  the  chasms  deep, 
And  oft  the  pilgrims  pause  to  weep. 

Down  in  the  valley,  a  vine-wreathed  cot, 
A  happy  household,  where  strife  is  not, 
Each  content  in  a  simple  lot. 

Up  on  the  heights,  one  dwells  apart, 
A  mark  for  many  an  envious  dart, 
Lofty,  but  lonely,  and  starved  in  heart. 

Oh,  would  there  were  less  of  strife  to  gain, 
With  bleeding  feet,  with  tug  and  strain, 
Far,  rocky  heights,  that  are  heights  of  pain. 

The  brightest  wreaths  of  fame  may  rest 
On  throbbing  brows,  and  royal  vest 
Oft  has  covered  an  aching  breast. 


MORNING  VIEW  OF  LAKE  MICHIGAN. 

Here  on  this  rugged  bluff  I  stand  alone 
And  look  out  on  the  waters.     Could  I  tell — 
Which  I  cannot — all  that  I  see  and  feel ; 
Could  I  but  give  the  swelling  thoughts  a  tone 
That  press  up  to  my  lips — a  song  so  sweet, 
So  thrilling  in  its  tuneful  harmonies, 
Should  send  out  on  the  air  its  rhythmic  beat, 
That  heedless  wights  should  pause  amid  the 

street, 
And  listen  with  bowed  heads  and  tearful  eyes. 

My  eyes  are  wet.    The  beauty  of  the  lake 
At  this  still  morning  hour,  draped  in  its  veil 
Of  dreamy  mist  so  soft,  translucent,  pale ; 
Its  music,  as  the  blue  waves  gently  break, 


124  SPINNING  TOW. 

Move  me  to  tears.     Yet  am  I  all  alone ; 

No  sympathetic  glances  kindle  mine, 

No  answering  eye,   where  kindred  feelings 

shine, 
Another  heart  interprets  to  my  own. 

Ah  well !  Here  are  the  softly  gleaming  waves, 
Here  are  the  gold-fringed  clouds,  above,  below, 
Which  from  yon  heaven  and  from  the  waters 

glow; 
Here  is  the  sunshine,   which   my  forehead 

laves,  [by ; 

And  there  the  white-winged  ships  go  sailing 
The  cool  wind  blows,  and  lightly  lifts  my  hair. 
Can  there  be  solitude  amid  a  scene  so  fair? 
Can  one  be  lonely  with  such  company? 

Behind  me  lies  the  city,  fast  asleep, 
Save  early  workmen  going  to  their  toil 
With  sounding  tread.    The  long  day's  dusty 

moil 
Clanks  not  along  the  streets.      The  convent 

bell, 
Whose  tones  above  the  dreamers  softly  swell, 
Unheeded,  troubles  not  their  slumber  deep. 
The  sleeping  city  and  the  pale  blue  lake, 
The  convent  bell,   the  low  waves'  ceaseless 

break, 
The  morning  mists— all  these  shall  memory 

keep. 


SPINNING  TOW. 


A  little  maid  with  braided  hair 

Walks  to  and  fro 
Before  a  wheel.     What  does  she  there? 

The  child  is  spinning  tow. 

In  through  the  open  window  comes 

The  scented  breeze ; 
With  drowsy  wing  the  wild  bee  hums 

Out  in  the  orchard  trees. 


INDIANA.  125 

The  blue  sky  bends,  the  flowers  are  sweet, 

As  children  know ; 
Yet  with  deft  hands  and  steady  feet, 

This  child  keeps  spinning  tow. 

Still  works  she ;  steady  mounts  the  sun 

Through  skies  of  May, — 
The  small  task  ends ;  the  skein  is  spun ; 

The  girl  bounds  out  to  play. 

She  learns  life's  lesson  young,  you  say? 

-Tis  better  so. 
That  life  is  toil  as  well  as  play, 

She  learns  here,  spinning  tow. 

Years  pass.     Beside  her  own  hearthstone 

A  woman  stands, 
With  steady  eye  and  cheerful  tone, 

Brave  heart  and  willing  hands. 

This  matron,  who  on  household  ways 

G-lides  to  and  fro, 
Learned  when  a  child,  on  soft  spring  days, 

Life's  lesson — spinning  tow. 


INDIANA. 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    MRS.    INDIANA   DEMERRIT, 
OF  AZTALAN,  WIS. 

Underfoot  the  grass  is  springing, 
All  the  earth  is  smiling  sweet ; 

Overhead  the  birds  are  singing 
Joyful  things  each  other  greet ; 

"While  they  lay  thee  down  to  rest 
With  thy  babe  upon  thy  breast, 
Indiana. 

Softly  murmurs  yonder  river, 
Hazel-bordered,  down  the  dell, 

While,  with  mournful  sob  and  quiver, 
Slowly,  slowly,  tolls  the  bell. 


126  INDIANA. 

Voice  of  bird,  or  bell,  or  stream 
Shall  not  break  thy  peaceful  dream, 
Indiana. 

Aching  hearts  are  throbbing,  swelling, 
With  a  deep  and  heavy  pain ; 

Breasts  are  heaving,  tears  are  welling, 
Falling  on  the  sod,  like  rain. 

Sadly  tolls  the  village  bell — 
Tolls  each  aching  heart  as  well, 
Indiana. 

Quiet  lives  have  most  of  beauty, 
Noiseless  goodness  most  endears. 

Mother-love  and  wifely  duty 
Leave  behind  them  saddest  tears; 

And  the  world  can  never  know 
Why  thy  dear  ones  miss  thee  so, 
Indiana. 

Drear  the  rooms  that  late  did  hold  thee, 
Where  thy  footsteps  went  and  came ; 

Arms  are  empty  that  did  fold  thee, 
Lips  are  white  that  spoke  thy  name. 

Gone  thy  smile,  thy  gentle  grace — 
Ah,  thy  home's  an  empty  place, 
Indiana. 

Where  thy  silent  form  reposes, 
Creeping  mosses,  eglantine, 

Glossy  vines  and  summer  roses, 
Loving  hands  shall  sadly  twine. 

Yet  the  fragrant  blooms  shall  fall 
O'er  a  sweeter  flower  than  all — 
Indiana. 

Still  and  deep  shall  be  thy  slumber, 
-     Lying  with  thy  head  so  low ; 
Naught  shall  fret,  no  care  shall  cumber, 

While  the  seasons  come  and  go. 
Fallen  flower,  with  severed  stem, 
Thus  I  sing  thy  requiem, 

Indiana. 


EVERYDAY  WORK.  127 


EVERY  DAY  WORK. 

Great  deeds  are  trumpeted;  loud  bell's  are 
rung, 
And  men  turn  round  to  see 
The  high  peaks  echo  to  the  peans  sung 

O'er  some  great  victory. 
And  yet  great  deeds  are  few.    The  mightiest 

men 
Find  opportunities  but  now  and  then. 

Shall  one  sit  idle  through  long  days  of  peace, 

Waiting  for  walls  to  scale? 
Or  lie  in  port  until  some  "  Golden  Fleece  " 

Lures  him  to  face  the  gale? 
There's  work  enough;  why  idly,  then,  delay? 
His  work  counts  most  who  labors  every  day. 

A  torrent  sweeps  adown  the  mountain's  brow, 

With  foam  and  flash  and  roar. 
Anon  its  strength  is  spent— where  is  it  now? 

Its  one  short  day  is  o'er. 
But  the  clear  stream  that  through  the  meadow 

flows, 
All  the  long  summer  on  its  mission  goes. 

Better  the  steady  flow;  the  torrent's  dash 

Soon  leaves  its  rent  track  dry. 
The  light  we  love  is  not  a  lightning  flash 

From  out  a  midnight  sky. 
But  the  sweet  sunshine,  whose  unfailing  ray, 
From  its  calm  throne  of  blue,  lights  every 
day. 

The  sweetest  lives  are  those  to  duty  wed — 
Whose  deeds  both  great  and  small, 

Are  close-knit  strands  of  one  unbroken  thread, 
Where  love  ennobles  all. 

The  world  may  sound  no  trumpets,  ring  no 
bells— 

The  Book  of  Life  the  shining  record  tells. 


128  DOWN  BELOW. 


BLACKBIRDS. 


Day  after  day  the  blackbirds  came 

And  perched  in  flocks  on  my  hickory-tree, 
While  the  leaves,  at  first  just  touched  with 
flame, 
Grew  golden,  then  brown  as  brown  could 
be. 

And  still  they  came  in  a  sable  shower — 
A  flitting,  chattering,  noisy  crowd— 

And  I  wondered,   watching  them  hour  by 
hour, 
What  they  said  when  they  talked  so  loud. 

Sadly  the  leaves  fell,  one  by  one, 
Floating,  fluttering  slowly  down — 

Leaves  so  green  in  the  summer  sun, 
Now  so  withered,  and  sere,  and  brown. 

The  tree  grew  bare ;  I  watched  one  day 
In  vain— the  blackbirds  came  no  more ; 

And  then  I  knew  they  had  fled  away, 
And   my  sorrowful   thought  this  burden 
bore: 

The  winds  shall  blow  through  my  hickory- 
tree, 
The  sifting  snow,  and  the  sleety  rain ; 
But,  little  I  know  what  awaiteth  me 
Ere  the  leaves  and  the  blackbirds  come 
again! 


DOWN  BELOW. 


They  say  that  under  the  ocean  waves, 
At  the  feet  of  the  rocks  where  ships  go 
down, 

There  are  halls  of  silence— peaceful  caves, 
Where  lie  the  sailors  whom  tempests  drown, 

Where  monsters  sleep,  and  mermaids  fair 
Comb  forever  their  pale  green  hair. 


ONE  BOUB.  129 

There  is  surf  and  foam  when  fierce  winds 
blow, 

There  is  rush  of  billow  and  thunderous  roar, 
Still  in  those  chambers  down  below, 

There  is  calm  forever  and  evermore. 
No  wind,  no  wave ;  the  sunk  ship's  mast 

Is  out  of  the  tempest's  reach  at  last. 

Life  is  a  sea— so  the  poet  says— 
And  yet  the  deepest  of  human  souls 

Shows  smoothest  surface  in  stormiest  days. 
Far  underneath  the  wild  tide  rolls 

Through  hidden  caverns  in  surging  flow, 
As  the  gusts  of  the  tempest  come  and  go. 

Underneath,  perchance,  a  careless  smile, 
The  sorest  heartache  lies  fathoms  down ; 

And  laughter  is  oft  but  a  trick  of  guile 
To  hide  the  pricks  of  a  thorny  crown, 

In  direst  conflict  no  sound  is  heard, 
And  the  deepest  grief  hath  never  a  word. 

So,  a  great,  strong  soul — when  truth  is  said— 
Is  a  sea  whose  heavings  are -out  of  sight ; 

It  buries  deepest  its  best  loved  dead, 
And  sends  out  bravely  its   "song  in  the 
night." 

There  are  throbs  of  anguish,  terrible  throes, 
Veiled  by  a  surface  of  calm  repose. 


ONE  HOUR. 

Only  to  rest  an  hour !  to  loose  the  strain 
Of  feverish  toil — with  quiet  pulse  to  lie 

And  watch  with  folded  hands  the  upper  main, 
Where  ships  of  soft,  white  cloud  go  floating 

by. 

Neither  to  work  nor  think !  to-morrow's  care 
Folded  and  wrapped,  and  closely  laid  away ; 
To  make  no  effort,  just  to  drink  the  air, 
Whose  warm,  sweet  kisses  round  my  tem- 
ples play. 
9 


130  PROBABLY  NOT. 

Some  viewless  sorrow  may  be  stealing  nigh ; 

I  will  not  weep  for  grief  I  do  not  know. 
I  will  not  shrink  beneath  this  April  sky, 

And  shiver  at  the  thought  of  April  snow. 

A  bird  sings  yonder  on  a  leafless  tree; 

His  songs  are  merry— would  they  be  so  gay 
Did  he  sit  pondering  on  storms  to  be— 

On  sleety  rain  to  come  another  day? 

You  tell  me  that  the  world  is  going  wrong — 
What  then  ?    I  cannot  stay  the  surging  tide ; 

Its  many  waters  have  a  flow  too  strong ; 
I  cannot  turn  a  stream  so  deep  and  wide. 

Then  let  me  rest;  enough,  just  now,  is  life; 

Let  labor  and  ambition  wholly  cease — 
All  loads  laid  down,  hushed  every  thought  of 
strife ; 

For  this  one  hour,  I  crave  but  perfect  peace. 


PEOBABLY  NOT. 

My  ships  may  come  in  from  the  sea, 

Laden  with  wealth  untold, 
And  bringing  it  all  to  me— 
Spices,  and  pearls,  and  gold, 
In  many  a  rich  ingot — 
But— probably  not. 

The  castles  I  build  in  Spain, 

That  a  breath  so  topples  o'er, 
And  which  daily  I  rear  again,     - 
May  stand,  and  fall  no  more — 
By  destroying  winds  forgot — 
But— probably  not. 

I  may  find  the  shackles  of  care 
That  fetter  my  aching  wing, 
While  I  long  to  cleave  the  air, 
And  wildly  to  soar  and  sing, 
Lifted  from  off  my  lot- 
But— probably  not. 


HARVEST.  131 

The  heights  to  which  I  aspire— 
I  may  reach  them  by  and  by ; 
And  that  which  I  most  desire — 
I  may  clasp  it  before  I  die, 

With  the  longing  and  pain  forgot — 
But— probably  not. 

I  may  find  on  life's  battle  field, 

Ere  the  going  down  of  the  sun, 
A  place  to  lay  down  my  shield, 
With  the  struggle  over  and  done — 
Some  peaceful  and  sheltered  spot- 
But— probably  not. 

I  may  find  how,  without  any  loss, 

I  can  lay  my  burdens  down ; 
Some  way  to  elude  the  cross, 
And  yet  to  deserve  the  crown 

Which  falls  to  the  conqueror's  lot- 
But— probably  not. 


HAKVEST. 


Green  are  the  cornfields,  the  wheat  is  golden; 

Fresh  are  the  footprints  of  radiant  June ; 
Fair  is  the  Earth,  with  all  of  its  olden 

Noontide  splendor,  its  midnight  moon. 

Night  comes  slowly,  with  soft  hues  blended, 
Purple  of  twilight  and  cloud-wrack  dun ; 

Sounds  and  sights  of  the  day  are  ended, 
Clatter  of  reaper  and  glare  of  sun. 

Shocks  of  grain  in  the  night  show  dimly,      t 
Dotting  the  swells  of  the  prairie's  breast ; 

Down    where     yon  headlight  goes    gliding 
grimly, 
Courses  the  steed  that  knows  no  rest. 

Whistle  of  engine,  and  jar  and  thunder, 
Startle  the  silence  and  then  are  gone ; 

Still  as  before,  is  the  valley  yonder, 
Softly  as  ever  the  stream  flows  on. 


132  OVER  THE  HILL. 

I  think,  as  I  sit  here,  idly  dreaming— 
The  wind  on  my  temples,  the  dew  on  my 
hair, 
And  the  radiant  moonbeams  o'er  me  stream- 
ing— 
Of  another  summer,  as  sweet  and  fair. 

Then,  as  now,  stood  close  together 
Clustering  sheaves  on  fields  new  shorn : 

Soft  sweet  winds  of  the  summer  weather 
Stole  through  the  ranks  of  dark-green  corn. 

I  think  of  a  night — the  moon  shone  brightly ; 

I  stood  bare-browed  at  the  garden  gate— 
I  think  of  a  hand  on  my  head  laid  lightly, 

And  a  voice — to  me  'twas  the  voice  of  fate. 


Life's  sweet  summer  has  bloomed  and  faded  \ 
Sheaves  have  followed  the  red  June  rose ; 

Flecks  of  frost  in  my  locks  are  braided ; 
Wait  I  now  for  the  winter  snows. 

Yet,  oh,  yet,  while  life  shall  linger — 

Let  its  tides  swell  high,  or  ebb  and  fall- 
Never  shall  ruthless,  defacing  finger 
Touch  that  picture  on  memory's  wall. 


OVER  THE  HILL. 

We  met    on    the  hillside — we    both    were 
young— 
Where  countless  thousands  have  met  be- 
fore; 
And  read  together  the  tender  book 
That  youth  in  all  time  cons  o'er  and  o'er. 

How  sweet  the  rhymes !    How  brightly  down 
Shone  on  our  faces  the  golden  morn ! 

Far  up  the  path  sweet  roses  clung, 
Soft  blew  the  winds  of  the  Summer  born. 


OVER  THE  HILL.  133 

"  Our  path  shall  be  one,"  he  tenderly  said, 
" Up  the  hill,  down  the  other  side; 

Whether  heavy  or  light  the  burden  be, 
Only  as  one  shall  our  strength  be  tried." 

So  we  climbed  together,  young  and  strong — 
For  no  toil  is  heavy  to  Love  and  Youth — 

And  plucked    the  flowers  that   fringed  the 
way- 
Flowers  that  blossom  for  Trust  and  Truth. 

How  sweet  the  morn !    How  the  hours  sped ! 

And  dancing  beside  us  came  little  feet, 
Sweet,  tiny  voices,  and  little  hands, 

Clinging  softly,  with  clasping  sweet. 

Ah,  the  tender  sadness  with  which  one  tells 
Of  joys  that  are  dead!    The  morning  gone, 

Eough  grew  the  way,  and  hard  the  toil, 
As  the  weary  heat  of  the  noon  came  on. 

And  then  he  was  stricken !  falling  down 
In  the  rugged  way,  at  the  hot  noontide ; 

And  cold  hands  bore  him  away  from  me, 
Over  the  stream  to  the  other  side. 

O !  weary,  weary,  the  way  I  have  trod ! 

The  pattering  feet  beside  my  own 
No  more  keep  time,  and  the  little  hands 

Clasp  mine  no  more.    Old,  and  alone ! 

I  have  passed  the  summit  long  ago— 
Slowly,  painfully,  creeping  down ! 

Gray  locks  are  straying  my  temples  o'er, 
Where  clustered    brightly  the    curls    of 
brown. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  rolls  the  sullen  stream ; 

I  am  nearing  it  now,  at  the  eventide ; 
I  shall  enter  it  when  the  sun  goes  down, 

And  meet  my  love  on  the  other  side ! 


134  A  LITTLE  LONGER. 


A  LITTLE  LONGEB. 

A  little  longer  the  winds  shall  blow 
From    the    still    white   billows  of  frozen 

seas, — 
Shall  shriek  through  the  branches  of  naked 
trees, 
And  heap  the  valleys  with  hills  of  snow. 

A  little  longer  the  land  shall  lie, 
Corpse-like,  silent,  wrapped  in  a  shroud, 
While  storms  hold  wake  like  a  drunken 
crowd, 

A  fierce,  wild  rout— but  the  end  is  nigh. 

A  deathless  heart  in  the  frozen  breast, 
Far  out  of  reach  of  frost  or  storm, 
Throbs  with  a  beat  as  soft  and  warm 

As  the  pulse  of  a  babe  in  its  rosy  rest. 

A  little  longer  the  Winter-night — 
The  silent  sleeper  shall  wake  at  morn, — 
Shall  wake  and  sing,  with  joy  new-born, 

Wreathed  with  violets,  crowned  with  light. 

Looking  out  over  wastes  of  snow, 
Vast  and  boundless, — a  realm  of  death, — 
We  long  for  the  South- wind's  gentle  breath, 

For  carol  of  birds,  and  for  water's  flow. 

A  little  longer  to  feel  the  sting 
Of  the  creeping  frost,  and  against  the  blast 
To  close  our  doors  and  to  bolt  them  fast — 

Then  to  fling   them  wide  at  the  touch  of 
Spring ! 

O  days  of  Sorrow !  O  Storms  of  Fate ! 
Could  we  see  the  end,  when  clouds  hang 

low, 
As  we  see  the  Spring  through  the  Winter 
snow, 
And  know  it  would  come— we  well  could  wait ! 


LOVE.  135 


LOVE. 


Fret  not  if  fateful  bar 

Cause  Love's  delay, 
Nor  if  some  baleful  star 

Cross  Love  alway. 
Love  crossed  is  better  far 

Than  Love's  decay. 

Love  hidden  in  the  breast 

Is  hoarded  gold ; 
By  brooding  thought  caresst, 

It  ne'er  grows  old. 
Love  satisfied,  at  rest, 

Oft  waxes  cold. 

We  pity  those  who  part 

To  meet  no  more ; 
We  sorrow  for  the  smart, 

The  aching  sore ; 
The  joined,  yet  twain  of  heart, 

Need  pity  more. 

Two  sit  at  table,  where 
Love  once  said  grace ; 

A  bond  yet  holds  them  there, 
Still  face  to  face : 

Love,  jostled  out  by  Care, 
Has  fled  the  place. 

There  live  whose  wedding-day 
Was  wreathed  in  gold ; 

Who  saw  time  stretch  away 
With  joys  untold : 

Their  lives  creep  on  to-day, 
Gray,  sad,  and  cold. 

Love,  set  in  daily  groove, 
Drops  its  high  mission. 

The  lives  of  thousands  prove 
This  hard  condition : 

The  sorest  test  of  Love 
Is  Love's  fruition. 


136  LAB  OB. 

O  thou  who  through  long  years 

Hast  dwelt  alone, 
Whose  love,  enshrined  in  tears, 

Holds  secret  throne, 
This  thought  its  comfort  bears : 

'Tis  still  thine  own. 

Ye  wedded  who  remain, 

(But  ye  are  few) 
Through  all  life's  toil  and  pain, 

Warm,  tender,  true, 
Earth  holds,  on  hill  or  plain, 

None  blest  like  you. 


LABOR. 


Welcome,  life's  toil!  I  thank  the  gracious 
Giver 
Who  finds  my  heart  and  hands  their  work 
to  do; 
That  labor  done  still  multiplies  forever, 
And  each  swift  hour  and  moment  claims 
its  due. 

I  pity  him  who  sits  him  down  repining, 
Bound  in  his  idleness — a  silken  thong ; 

He  hates  the  sun  and  wearies  of  its  shining ; 
His  moments  creep— for   empty  days  are 
long. 

My  days  are  full,  I  have  no  far  off  ' '  mission ; " 
My  work  is  near ;  'tis  only  mine  to  stand 

Accepting  tasks  that  spring  from  my  condi- 
tion— 
Doing,  as  best  I  may,  the  work  at  hand. 

It  may  be  small :  yet,  drop  by  drop  is  added 
To  make  the  gentle  flow,  the  steady  stream ; 

The  smallest  needle,  if  'tis  often  threaded 
By  patient  hand,  may  sew  the  longest  seam. 


THE  FIRST  BREA  Til  OF  SPRING.      137 

The  finest  strands  may  twist  into  a  cable ; 

Small  stones  be  piled  till  looms  a  pyramid, 
Slow,  patient  thought  may  break  a  crust  of 
fable, 
Beneath  which  golden  mines  of  truth  lie 
hid. 

I  cannot  always  see  my  cable  growing ; 

Nor  always  see  my  pile  of  stones  increase ; 
Yet,  while  I  toil — the  still  years  swiftly  go- 
ing— 

This  fruit  by  labor  bears ;  It  bringeth  peace. 


THE  FIRST  BREATH  OF  SPRING. 

The  drifts  lie  deep,  the  ice  bound  stream 
Wrestles  in  vain  with  its  wedded  chain ; 

The  lake  still  sleeps,  still  dreams  its  dream, 
Under  its  bright,  cold  counterpane. 

The  woods  are  mute,  save  the  mournful  tune 
Sung  by  the  wind  in  last  year's  leaves. 

Still  that  cracked  and  dolorous  tune 
Sobs  and  shudders  and  frets  and  grieves. 

Winter  is  king:— yet,  soft  and  sweet, 
Comes  a  whisper,  a  far,  faint  tone 

Of  distant  music  in  muffled  beat, 
Only  a  breath,  yet  it  shakes  his  throne ! 

Only  a  breath !  and  so  faint,  so  low, 
That  I  lean  to  listen,  and  bear  my  head — 

Lean  to  listen— till  over  the  snow 
Comes  the  sound  of  a  velvet  tread. 

Who  breathes  so  low  ?  who  comes  apace. 

Treading  softly,  with  feet  unseen, 
With  muffled  form,  and  with  covered  face  ? 

It  is  Spring  that  comes.— Long  live   the 
Queen ! 


138  FAME. 

Welcome !  all  hail  to  the  reign  so  near ! 

Thine  hour  is  not  yet  come,  we  know ; 
We  shall  wait  through  days  that  are  gray 
and  drear,  , 

Through  howling  tempest  and  driving  snow. 

But  we  well  can  wait ;  the  fields,  the  lake, 

Silent  lie,  like  a  realm  of  death ; 
Yet  thou  art  near  and  the  dead  shall  wake, 

We  have  heard  thy  voice,  we  have  felt  thy 
breath ! 

Haste,  oh  haste !    In  this  hour  of  calm 
We  have  heard  thee,  but  oh,  to  feel  thy 
kiss! 
Oh  for  the  touch  of  thy  lips  of  balm ! 
And  oh !  to  be  drunk  with  thy  draughts  of 
bliss ! 


FAME. 

Thou  who  canst  rouse,  by  power  of  song, 

The  heart  of  the  throng, 
See  thou  stir  not  its  lowest  deep. 
Wake  not  chords  that  are  best  asleep, 

Lest  echoes  fell 
Shall  vex  thine  ear  and  affright  thy  soul, 
Lest  the  praise  which  is  blame — which  shall 
work  thee  dole — 

Shall  around  thee  swell. 

Fame  is  like  wine— a  cup  to  sip 

With  temperate  lip. 
Taste  the  sparkles  that  bead  the  rim, 
It  shall  quicken  the  blood  through  brain  and 
limb; 
;  But,  drain  it  dry, 

Thou  shalt  age  in  heart  while  young  in  years; 
Thou  shall  learn  what  heartaches,  sighs  and 
tears 
In  the  bottom  lie. 


THE  WAYSIDE  TROUGH.  139 


THE  WAYSIDE  TROUGH. 

On  the  velvet  hem  of  grasses  green 

That  borders  the  edge  of  the  dusty  way, 

Under  a  maple's  glossy  screen, 
Is  a  rough-hewn  trough,  all  battered  and 
gray. 

All  through  the  Summer,  wet  or  dry, 
With  dripping  crystal  the  brim  o'erflows, 

Pure  as  the  rain  that  falls  from  the  sky, 
Free  as  the  air  that  comes  and  goes. 

Into  the  trough  falls  a  tiny  stream — 
Steadily  falls,  both  day  and  night  — 

In  the  noontide  glow,  in  the  moon's  pale  beam, 
Sparkling  always — a  thread  of  light. 

This  battered  trough,  and  this  tiny  stream 
Are  known  for  many  and  many  a  mile. 

'Tis  here  that  the  wagoner  rests  his  team; 
For  this  he  waits— it  is  worth  his  while. 

'Tis  here  that  the  footman,  faint  and  sore, 
Lured  by  the  streamlet's  silver  tone, 

Rests  till  the  midday  heats  are  o'er, 
Then,  cheered,  refreshed,  presses  bravely 
on. 

And  children,  loitering  home  from  school, 
With  hot,   flushed  faces  and  bare  brown 
feet, 
Dip  their  brows  in  the  waters  cool, 

With  ringing    shouts  and  with  laughter 
sweet. 

Whence  does  it  come — this  stream  so  bright, 
That  falls  in  the  trough  by  the  dusty  way— 

This  sparkling,  musical  thread  of  light, 
That  tinkles  and  sings,  by  night  and  day? 


140  THE  TALKING  FIEND. 

*Back  in  the  fields,  at  a  meadow's  edge, 
Under  a  bank,  by  trees  o'erhung, 
'Mid  sweet-flag  clumps  and  grassy  sedge, 
Is  born  the  stream  with  the  silver  tongue. 

A  deep,  clear  spring,  with  a  household  name- 
Through  fiercest  drouths  it  still  o'erflows, 

As  pure  and  as  cold  as  if  it  came 
From  rifted  bosoms  of  melting  snows. 

'Twas  a  dear  old  man  (bless  his  memory ! 

It  should  live  forever,  fresh  and  sweet !) 
Who  hewed  the  trough  from  a  linden  tree, 

And  set  it  down  by  the  dusty  street. 

He  caught  and  harnessed  the  tiny  stream ; 

It  filled  the  trough,  and  it  fills  it  yet. 
In  the  old  man's  heart  was  a  simple  dream 

Of  blessing  his  kind—but  men  forget. 

He  sleeps  on  the  hillside,  peacefully, 
Whether     zephyrs     sigh  or    storm-winds 
blow — 

The  hands  that  hollowed  the  linden  tree 
Were  mutely  folded,  oh !  long  ago ! 

Still  weary  wayfarers  stoop  to  drink, 
Where  tinkles  the  stream  like  a  silver  bell. 

Of  the  kind  old  man  few  ever  think ; 
But  I  know  he  would  say— "It  is  just  as 
well." 


THE  TALKING  FIEND. 

Sad  is  his  fate,  we  may  well  suppose, 
To  whose  pillow  at  dead  of  night, 

Comes  a  ghost  in  diaphanous  clothes, 
And  stands  there,  still  and  white. 

It  wouldn't  be  pleasant  for  you  or  me- 
The  ghost  that  in  silence  stalks ; — 

But  worse  than  a  silent  ghost  can  be, 
Is  the  fiend  who  always  talks. 


FOREBODING.  141 

As  to  spiteful  spirits,  black  or  gray, 
If  you  keep  your  conscience  clear, 

And  a  horseshoe  over  the  door,  they  say, 
Not  one  will  venture  near. 

But  there's  nothing  yet,  as  I've  heard  tell, 

That  can  lay  this  Thing  of  Evil. 
Not  saintly  purity,  charm  or  spell, 

Can  banish  the  talking  devil. 

There  are  bolts  and  bars  for  midnight  crime, 
Which  in  darkness  prowls  about ; 

But  the  thief  who  filches  your  precious  time, 
There's  nothing  to  keep  him  out. 

Of  all  life's  miseries  dread  and  dire, 

Have  sorrowful  poets  sung ; 
But  worse  than  famine,  or  flood,  or  fire, 

Is  the  fiend  with  the  ceaseless  tongue. 

You  know  him ;  he  calls  himself  your  friend ; 

But  your  deadliest  enemy, 
Who  presses  hate  to  the  bitter  end, 

Is  more  of  a  friend  than  he. 

Does  he  dwell  with  you  ?     At  your  table  sit? 

Then,  pack  your  traps  and  fly ! 
Or  be  talked  to  death— and  I've  heard  that  "it 

Is  a  terrible  death  to  die." 

Should  the  fiend  read  this,  he'll  not  look  grim, 
But  a  smile  shall  his  visage  mellow. 

He'll  never  dream  it  is  meant  for  him, 
But  he'll  think  of  some  other  fellow. 


FOREBODING. 


I  will  not  look  for  storms  when  skies  are 
glowing, 

With  hues  of  summer  sunsets  painted  o'er ; 
When  all  my  tides  of  life  are  softly  flowing, 

I  will  not  listen  for  the  breakers'  roar. 


142  GRANDMOTHER. 

I  will  not  search  the  future  for  its  sorrows, 
Nor  peer  ahead  for  lions  in  the  way, 

I  will  not  weep  o'er  possible  to-morrows — 
Sufficient  is  the  evil  of  to-day. 


GKANDMOTHER 


Busy  and  quiet,  and  sweet  and  wise, 

With  a  long  life's  thought  in  her  gentle  eyes — 

The  hoarding  of  many  a  year — 
Nearer  drawing,  from  sun  to  sun, 
To  the  peaceful  goal  of  a  race  well  run, 
Writing  her  record  of  work  well  done 

In  the  hearts  that  hold  her  dear. 

Grandmother's  locks,  all  silvery  white, 
Seem  to  my  fancy  like  bands  of  light, 

Crowning  her  sweet,  pale  face. 
Grandmother's  voice  is  tender  and  low ; 
And  the  fall  of  her  footsteps  soft  and  slow, 
As  hither  and  yonder,  and  to  and  fro, 

She  glides  with  a  saintly  grace. 

Grandmother's  mission,  for  every  day, 
Is  to  do  the  duty  that  comes  her  way, 

Whatever  that  duty  be. 
To  think  of  others,  herself  forget, 
To  dry  sad  eyes  when  her  own  are  wet, 
Is    Grandmother's  plan— and  the    best  one 

yet  — 

'Twere  a  good  one  for  you  and  me. 

She  has  her  griefs,  though  she  hides  them 

well, 
Her  heart  Still  throbs  when  a  tolling  bell 

Utters  its  mournful  tone. 
For  she  thinks  of  a  knell  rung  long  ago, 
Of  a  far-off  grave  underneath  the  snow, 
And  a  silent  sleeper  on  pillow  low, 

Whose  lips  once  pressed  her  own. 


CARRIER'S  ADDRESS.  143 

Thirty  years— 'tis  a  lonely  while ! 
Yet    Grandmother's    face  wears  a  peaceful 
smile 
As  she  sits  in  the  sunset  glow. 
She  is  busy  still,  as  the  evening  light 
Falls  on  her  hair,  so  silvery  white : 
And  she  softly  speaks  of  the  coming  night- 
She  is  biding  her  time  to  go. 


CARRIER'S  ADDRESS. 

MDLXXV. 

Hearken,  kind    friends.     Upon    this    New 
Year's  day, 
While  hand  grasps  hand  with  warm  and 

friendly  grip, 
And  joyful  greetings  leap  from  lip  to  lip, 
Scorn  not  to  hear  the  little  I  shall  say ; 
For,   call  it  what  you  will— a  speech   or 

song,— 
I  promise  one  thing :  it  shall  not  be  long. 

To  hold  before  you  the  historic  roll 
Of  seventy-four,  I  don't  pretend  to  try, 
(You  know  the  record  quite  as  well  as  I) 

Nor  yet  to  open  up  the  sealed  scroll 
Of  seventy-five.     I  could  not  if  I  would, 
And,  what  is  more,  I  would  not  if  I  could. 

Evil,  catastrophe,  may  loom  ahead, 
Close-wrapped  in  shadows.     What  would 

be  the  gain, 
If  one  could  strip  them  naked  ?    Naught 
but  pain. 
We  bear  an  evil  twice  which  once  we  dread ; 
And  as  to  good,  to  be  most  full,  complete, 
There  must  be  some  surprise  to  spice  the 
sweet. 


144  j  CARRIER'S  ADDRESS. 

Some  things  have  happened,  and  some  others 
will, 

No  doubt.    I  offer  you  these  sage  reflec- 
tions, 

Instead  of  going  over  the  elections, 
And  wailing  over  past  and  future  ill. 

The  Old  Year  buried,  vain  regrets  should 
cease, 

While  welcome  we  the  New  with  songs  of 
peace. 

The  world  moves  on ;  barred  is  the  backward 
track 
With    debris  of  the    ages.    Time    sweeps 

by- 
The  months,  the  days,  the  moments, — noise- 
lessly ; 
And  always,  always  onward,  never  back. 
Time  hath  no  ebbs ;  its  tides  flow  steadily, 
Ever,  forever,  toward  a  shoreless  sea. 

The  past  is  buried ;  rake  not  up  the  sod 
For  mouldering  bones,  nor  water  it  with 

tears. 
Along  with  buried  hopes  let  buried  fears 
Best  in  the  darkness.     Merciful  the  clod 
Which  hides  what  it  were  pain  to  look 

upon — 
The  "might  have  beens,"  the  good  deeds 
left  undone. 

Let  the  dead  sleep.    The  present  lives,  we 
know; 
To  grapple  that  is  all.    None  ever  may 
Do  aught  of  good  or  evil  yesterday. 
Its  tale  is  told  and  ended— let  it  go. 
And,  for  to-morrow,  not  yet  need  we  bear 
(Perchance  we  never  need)   its  grief  and 
care. 


LEAVE  ME  ALONE.  145 

The  days  go  by,— how  swift  their  flying  feet ! 
The  year  just  born  will  soon  be  old  and 

gray, 
And  down  the  swallowing  past  be  swept 
away. 
And  this    poor  life— so    dear,   so  frail    and 
fleet- 
Is  made  but  of  such  quickly  vanished  years, 
Ends  with  a  pall,  a  grave,  and  mourners' 
tears. 

The  days  go  by ;  we  cannot  stay  their  flight, 
But  he  who  fills  them  fullest  as  they  fly, 
His  year  is  longest — since  'tis  measured  by 
What  it  contains.    Four  score  were  but  a 
night, 
Lived  in  a  dungeon;  and  scarce  more  it 

seems, 
Wasted  in  trifling,  or  in  empty  dreams. 


LEAVE  ME  ALONE. 

Leave  me  alone.    I  would  not  see  thee  more. 
The  storm  is  hushed,  the  agony  is  o'er. 

I  would  not  feel  again 

The  passion  and  the  pain. 
Do  not  again  come  knocking  at  my  door. 

Leave  me  alone.    Put  not  into  my  hand 
A  broken  cup,  though   bound  with  golden 
band, 

Lest  I  with  thirsty  lip 

Once  more  its  passion  sip. 
Still  let  it  lie,  all  shattered  on  the  sand. 

Leave  me  alone.     I  followed,  long  ago, 
Joy  to  its  tomb,  with  tolling  marches  slow. 

Wake  not  my  buried  slain> 

Only  to  die  again. 
Leave  me  in  peace — 'tis  all  I  hope  to  know. 

10 


146  CONFIDENCE. 

Leave  me  alone.    I  may  not  quite  forget 
The  buried  love,  whose  sweetness  thrills  me 
yet; 
But  let  the  willow  wave ; 
Rake  not  a  grass-grown  grave ; 
Break  not  the  turf,  for  fresh- wrung  tears  to 
wet. 


CONFIDENCE. 


Is  it  better  never  to  hope,  than  to  hope  in 
vain  ? 

Is  it  better  never  to  strive,  lest  we  never  at- 
tain? 

Is  it  better  to  cling  to  the  shore  and  leave  un- 
tried 

Life's  wide,  deep  sea,  for  dread  of  its  storm 
and  tide  ? 

Who  ventures  naught,  he  surely  shall  never 

win; 
He  naught  shall  finish,  who  never  doth  aught 

begin; 
The  sun  may  shine  and  the  heaven  may  shed 

its  rain, 
But  only  the  sower  may  harvest  his  golden 

grain. 

To-morrow,  we  know,  is  dark  with  its  misty 

veil; 
The  light  on  the  path  to-day  is  but  dim  and 

pale; 
Blindly  we  grope  our  way — but  'tis  better 

so— 
What  God  hath  hidden  'tis  better  we  should 

not  know. 

Nobler  and  braver  is  he  who  stakes  his  all, 
And  takes  his  loss  or  gain  as  the  chances  fall, 
Than  he  who  folds  his  hands  and  idly  waits, 
Till  the  shadows  gather    darkly  about  his 
gates. 


WOMAN'S  WORK.  147 

Shall  we  turn  our  ear  away  from  a  sweet  re- 
frain, 

Lest  the  pleasant  song  may  turn  to  a  dirge  of 
pain? 

Shall  we  close  our  eyes  to  the  ray  in  the  mid- 
night gloom, 

Lest  it  prove  a  lure  that  leads  to  the  door  of  a 
tomb  ? 

Is  it  better  never  to  love,  lest  love  mistake  ? 
The  passionate  heart  may  quiver  and  ache 

and  break- 
Yet  give  us  the  warm,  rich  wine,  though  well 

we  know 
That  dregs  as  bitter  as  death  may  lie  below. 

We  sigh  for  the  joys  that  were  coming,  and 

never  came ; 
We  sit  in  the  dark  and  weep,  with  our  hearts 

aflame ; 
We  feel  the  crush  and  the  grind  of  the  silent 

mill- 
Feel  the  crush  and  the  grind,  while  our  lips 

are  still. 

What,  then!  shall  we  spurn  our  life  as  a 

broken  thing  ? 
Shall  we  fling  a  curse  in  the  face  of  Heaven's 

King? 
Happy  is  he  who  keepeth  his  trust  through 

all; 
He  may  shrink  and  shiver,  and  ialter,  but 

shall  not  fall. 


WOMAN'S  WOEK. 

Let  her  not  lift  a  feeble  voice  and  cry, 
"  What  is  my  work  ? "  and  fret  at  bars  and 
bands, 

While  all  about  her  life's  plain  duties  lie, 
Waiting  undone  beneath  her  idle  hands. 


148  INDIAN   SUMMER. 

The  noblest  life  oft  hath,  for  warp  and  woof, 
Small,    steady-running     threads    of  daily 
care; 
Where  patient    love,    beneath    some    lowly 
roof, 
Its  poem  sweet  is  weaving  unaware. 

And  soft  and  rich  and  rare  the  web  shall  be. 

O  wife    and   mother,   tender,   brave    and 
true, 
Rejoice,  be  glad !  and  bend  a  thankful  knee 

To  God,  who  giveth  thee  thy  work  to  do. 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Again  the  leaves  come  fluttering  down, 

Slowly,  silently,  one  by  one- 
Scarlet,  and  crimson,  and  gold,  and  brown,— 

Willing  to  fall,  for  their  work  is  done. 

And  once  again  comes  the  dreamy  haze, 
Draping  the  hills  with  its  filmy  blue, 

And  veiling  the  sun,  whose  tender  rays 
With    mellowed  light   come    shimmering 
through. 

Softly  it  rests  on  the  sleeping  lake — 
This  filmy  veil— and  the  distant  shore, 

Fringed  with  tangles  of  bush  and  brake, 
Shows  a  dim  blue  line  and  nothing  more. 

The  winds  are  asleep,  save  now  and  then 
Some  wandering  breeze  comes  stealing  by, 

Softly  rises,  then  sinks  again, 
And  dies  away  like  an  infant's  sigh. 

You  feel  the  spell  of  these  dreamy  days 
I  know— for  your  heart  is  in  tune  with 
mine. 
You  love  the  stillness,  the  tender  haze; 
I  know — for  your  thoughts  with  my  own 
entwine. 


HAZARD.  149 

But  this  dreamy  calm,  this  solemn  hush, 
The  sleeping  winds,  and  the  mellow  glow, 

Only  foretell  the  tempest's  rush, 
The  icy  blast,  and  the  whirling  snow. 

We— you  and  I— must  bow  to  the  frost, 
When  our  locks  are  white  with  its  hoary 
kiss; 

Our  last  rose  scattered,  its  petals  lost, 
May  our  Indian  Summer  be  calm — like  this. 


--< 


HAZARD. 


A  strange  and  a  wonderful  thing  is  our  mor- 
tal life! 

Strange  in  its  troubled  joy,  in  its  secret 
strife : 

Strange  in  its  helpless  groping  for  hidden 
light, 

With  each  step  forward  only  a  step  in  the 
night. 

Hope  is  a   siren  that    lures  with   deceitful 

smile, 
Warbles  bewitching  strains  with  her  lips  of 

guile, 
Sings  of  to-morrow's  pleasure,   to-m6rrow's 

gain; 
But  the  gain  oft    proves  but  loss,  and  the 

pleasure  pain. 

Caught  is  many  a  foot  in  a  silken  snare ; 
Ploughed  is  many  a  heart  by  a  golden  share ; 
Many  a  harvest  of  pain  is  in  pleasure  sown^ 
Watered    by    secret    tears    and    in   silence 
mown. 

A  curse  may  lurk  in  the  palm  of  a  soft  white 

hand ; 
Many  a  life  is  wrecked  on  a  gleaming  strand. 


100  THE  OLD  STONE  QUAEBY. 

Fair  is  the  Danger  Isle,  with  her  emerald 

shore ; 
But  the  ship  that  treads  her  rocks  returns  no 

more. 

Fair  is  the  sail  that  floats  o'er  a  rippling  sea ; 
Sweet  is  Love's  thrilling  strain,  sung  tenderly ; 
But  dire  the  wreck  that  parts  on  the  pitiless 

wave, 
And  sad  the  song  that  is  sung  at  an  open 

grave. 

Bright  is  many  a  morn  that  soon  clouds  o'er ; 

Dark  is  the  sullen  noon  with  its  angry  roar ; 

Dark  is  the  sullen  noon,  and  the  night  is 
black, 

And  our  stricken  treasures  lie  in  the  light- 
ning's track. 

Vainly  we  seek  to  pierce  the  dark  Unknown ; 
Vainly  implore  of  Silence  an  answering  tone ; 
Vainly  we  ask  of  Fate  her  scroll  to  lend ; 
One  thing  only  is  sure— that  Death  is  the  end. 


THE  OLD  STONE  QUAEBY. 

Grown  with  grass  and  with  tangled  weeds, 
Where  the  blind-mole  hides  and  the  rabbit 

feeds, 
And,  unmolested,  the  serpent  breeds. 

Edged  with  underwood,  newly  grown, 
Draped  with  the  cloak  that  the  years  have 

thrown 
Eound  the  broken  gaps  in  the  jagged  stone. 

It  was  opened — I  know  not  how  long  ago — 

Opened,  and  left  half -worked,  and  so 

In  this  ragged  hollow  the  rank  weeds  grow. 

Why  lies  it  idle—this  beautiful  stone  ? 

Ho,  for  the  pickaxe !    One  by  one 

Hew  out  these  blocks— here  is  work  undone. 


THE  OLD  STONE  QUARRY.  151 

There  are  possible  towers  in  this  serpents' 

den — 
Possible  homes  for  homeless  men. 
Who  shall  build    them  ?   and  where  ?   and 

when  ? 

Must  they  lie  here  still,  unmarked,  unsought — 
Turrets  and  temples,  uncarved,  unwrought, 
Till  the    end    of    time  ?     'Tis    a    sorrowful 
thought ! 

All  through  the  heats  of  the  summer  hours, 
The  wild  bee  hums  in  the  unplucked  flowers 
That  creep  and  bloom  over  unbuilt  towers. 

As  I  sit  here,  perched  on  the  grass-grown 

wall, 
Down  to  the  hollow  the  brown  leaves  fall, 
Little  by  little  covering  all. 

So  month  after  month,  and  year  after  year, 
The  rank  weeds  creep,  and  the  leaves  turn 

sere, 
And  a  thicker  mantle  is  weaving  here. 

And  a  day  may  come  when  the  passer-by, 
Threading  the  underwood,  then  grown  high, 
Shall  see  but  a  hollow,  where  dead  leaves  lie. 

There  are  human  souls  that  seem  to  me 
Like  this  unwrought  stone — for  all  you  see- 
ls a  shapeless  quarry  of  what  might  be, 

Lying  idle,  and  overgrown 

With    tangled    weeds,    like    this    beautiful 

stone — 
Possible  work  left  all  undone, 
Possible  victories  left  unwon. 

And  that  is  a  waste  that  is  worse  than  this ; 
Sharper  the  edge  of  the  hidden  abyss, 
Deadlier  serpents  crawl  and  hiss. 


152  TRAILING  CLOUDS. 

And  a  day  shall  come  when    the  desolate 

scene, 
Though  scanned  by  eyes  that  are  close  and 

keen, 
Shall  show  no  trace  of  its  "  might  have  been. " 


TEAZLING  CLOUDS. 

The  trailing  clouds  hang  low ; 
Their  misty  folds  drag  slow 

O'er  the  ground ; 
And  the  rain  makes,  as  it  falls 
On  the  roofs  and  on  the  walls, 

Scarce  a  sound. 

I  sit  and  idly  dream, 

While  the  rain-drops  drip  and  stream 

From  the  eaves ; 
And  memory's  folded  book 
Slowly  opens,  and  I  look 

Through  the  leaves. 

I  cannot  see  the  town, 

Nor  the  prairies,  yellow-brown, 

Through  the  mist ; 
But  these  pages,  blurred  with  years, 
I  can  read  them  through  my  tears, 

When  I  list. 

I  see  here  as  I  look 

Through  the  pages  of  the  book, — 

Flinching  not — 
Gray  shadows,  glints  of  sun ; 
Lost  battles,  battles  won ; 

Woman's  lot ; 

Green  paths,  with  sunshine  sweet ; 
Eough  steeps,  to  aid  my  feet ; 

Broken  staves; 
Love's  rapture,  wildly  throbbing, 
Then  grief,  as  wildly  sobbing 

Over  graves. 


WEIGHING   THE  WOULD.  153 

Must  ill  all  good  alloy? 
Will  sorrow,  chasing  joy, 

Never  rest  ? 
Ah,  why  the  bitter-sweet  ? 
And  why  the  bleeding  feet  ? 

God  knows  best. 

Listen !    A  tolling  bell 

Bobs  out  its  mournful  knell 
Over  there ; 

And  I  know  that  hearts  are  aching — 

Perhaps  some  heart  is  breaking- 
Over  there. 

At  last  the  clouds  are  lifted, 
And  sunset  gold  is  sifted 

To  the  plain. 
Oh,  peace  for  those  who  grieve ! 
May  it  come  like  light  at  eve 

After  rain. 


WEIGHING  THE  WOELD. 

I  weighed  the  world  to-day — its  golden  treas- 
ure, 
Its  gleam  and  glitter,  all  its  splendid  show, 
Its  pride,  its  fame — in  most  unstinted  meas- 
"ure — 
All  its  allurements  that  do  tempt  me  so. 

I  put  them  in  a  balance,  all  together, 
Against    one  heart — but    one,   yet    surely 
mine. 
I  wished  for  once  to  know  for  certain  whether 
This  way,  or  that  way,  would  the  scales  in- 
cline. 

Then  slowly  rose  the  piled-up,  shining  masses ; 

As  slowly,  surely,  did  that  one  thing  fall. 
So  have  I  weighed;    and  thus   the  verdict 
passes : 

I  find  that  one  true  heart  is  worth  them  all. 


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